Skjoll

I was young then. Smaller, more trusting and naïve to the battles at hand.






I was a fool. I know better now.






Some kids on some mission came to get him the other day. He's been gone for 15 years at this point. I told them as much. He's probably dead by now, and he wouldn't be here if he was alive anyways.



How could he leave us like that?



We were family. He cared about us, subtly.





What the hell happened to him?








A few minutes after the kids leave, he’s sucked into a years old memory, back from when he was fresh out of camp; a rookie. So, so young. He hates how bittersweet it is, how it must’ve been at least twenty years ago now; how almost all of those people he knew were dead or missing.

The rookies captain laughs uproariously, like he’s never seen before, his captains salt and pepper beard cleanly shaven as per usual. He’s laughing at a comment made by Reindhart, something the rookie isn’t sure was meant to be funny. Reindhart doesn’t seem like a joking guy, all heavy black combat boots and “sir yes sir”s, only accessorizing with a dyed white buzz cut. Reindhart sneers, clearly flushed for some reason, slamming his drink of the table and swiftly getting up and exiting the bar. His captain simply grins after his angered comrade, eyeing the door for a moment as it sways shut.

“Temperamental little sh*t, isn’t he?” His captain says, and the rookie smiles a bit, unsure of what to say in response. The girl, Yslovena, barks out a harsh laugh. Her sharp canines and even sharper grin glint in the pub light, and he finds himself intimidated. Her thick, unidentified accent somehow carries into her laugh.

The rookie isn't sure why they use her first name instead of her last; Kasenkya. Besides the obvious reason of it being long, some he knew like Captain Irdas was actually named Irdaskopffen, but it was shortened for clarity. But no answer is offered on her name, so he doesn't ask. Another guy on their team, older then Yslovena but younger than the captain, just snorts into his glass drink at Reindharts exit, keeping it held up to his nose as he watches the sports game from the bar. He has a smirk on — he seems to have one on a lot.

The smirking man, apparently named Vispar (his first name is Halvano, according to files the rookie has seen), is a redhead with white streaks. It's unclear if the white is due to age. His medium-length hair is pulled into a bun, but he has an undercut that's always crisp underneath it and a scruffy goatee. Maybe someone helps him trim the undercut, because there's no way he could trim it himself.

The rookie wonders who it is; the captain doesn't engage in things like that, Reindhardt is... its a shock when he acknowledges you, and Yslovena doesn't seem like the type. Either way, Vispar seems semi-friendly but not to the point of friendship, and the rookie is fine with that. The rookie is fresh off of SKARS training, fresh into this team that seem to pester each other at every turn. The wolves den, some call it.

He doesn’t know what to do with this team, this new environment — but what he does know is that he needs to find his way, or he’ll be dead in some river in a week.


for later (pls ignore lol): "___ stop moving" only ___ is dead so cap frkn freezes bc he doesnt want to tell him hes dead. u/i know the scene . a. angst my beloved .

"Do you know what your fear is?" he murmurs, fingers tracing but barely dusting the now bandaged wound. The injured hero tilts his head slightly at the random question, gold ringed eyes looking the healer up and down. Tentative interest crossed his unscarred face. "No. What is it?"

The healer doesn't so much as look at him when he says, "that your family doesn't need you. That you can die, in any way, and they would be okay with you gone." the hero looks down, golden blonde hair falling down over his eyes, and the healer continues.

"You must best this fear if you are to survive your prophecy." there was a pregnant pause, and then he said in his calming firm, quiet voice, "You are strong. Stronger than you know. Stay alive, Υιός του Sunλιου."

The hero nods, looking sullen for a long while, but does not seem angered at the healer.

It is after dusk when he asks something. "What does that mean?" the healer looks up from his work; a drawing from his own black tears. A curse he was born with, a son of an affair from god to mortal. He was gifted with his fathers healing, but cursed with a fluid that would always fall from his eyes, to cover and destroy his work if he tried to ever write it down.

"It means Son of the Sun. I believe it is fitting, yes?" there is slight amusement in the healers eyes, but they are mostly just a warm calm at this time. They are not dripping, there is no black sludge coming from his nostrils or ears.

This golden hero will grow to hold a bold grin with flashing teeth and bright eyes, but only smiles at this time, small but slightly sharp. "I am not the son of the sun, healer, though I appreciate your compliment."

The healer nods. "I understand. In my time, I was called Ορός αίματος, 'blood serum' for my abilities." there is a wistful smile now, slowly making its way across his weary face. "I always hated it. It caused me great chagrin."

The hero lets out a small chuff of laughter, a small movement as to not agitate his wounds. "I see we have come to a consensus, then, healer?" The healer has on a small smile now, amusement gracing his face. It looks good on him. "Yes, I suppose we have."

___


The golden hero looks over from his cot. It is dead of night, and yet the healer is still working on herbs.

"You will incur the wrath of Ghanres, you know that, yes?" the heroes face is somewhat tense as he asks the question. "For helping me," he clarifies. The healer nods.

"Yes."

"And you still healed me?"

"Yes." he responds, once again.

"Why?"

"I have been at the mercy of Ghanres for much less." the healer smiles warmly at the golden boy, and goes back to his work, leaving the hero slightly confused.

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when his cold, surveying gaze finally rests on you, you feel a chill go up your spine. he has no weapons, but you have an unnerving feeling that he doesn't need any. ____ » It started with blood. It ended with blood. it started with promises. promises from the man in red and gold, Azarikaphel, the man who promised to the hound when they were both small and unknowledgeable, i'll be better than my father, just help with this, and after years of prodding and watching the kingdom become more of a prison then way to live, watching the emperor, Azarikaphels father, descend further into paranoid madness, the hound -- back when the hound had a name -- finally said okay. okay, he would end the old emperor so Azarikaphel, the friend and heir always adorned in red and gold royal robes and warm, gentle hands and understanding eyes, the heir, could become emperor because Azarikaphel would be a better emperor. and at the time, they were both correct. Azarikaphel would be. Azarikaphels father was a menace, an unstable dog with too much power that had to be put down before he murdered any more innocents. the hound agreed with Azarikaphel. many in their empire would agree with them if they'd known the plot. Azarikaphel was too obvious a suspect, so the hound was up to play. he was a royal guard; he'd sworn loyalty to the royal family, nobody would suggest him. he was blindly loyal, too, that's why he was called, in official papers relating to only war, the hound. the hound would lose his name as time went on. as he soon was only the hound, no longer a person. but that was much later. so the hound sliced the neck of the old, wretched emperor, watched him bleed out onto the satin carpet, almost numb to the heirs -- his friend, the man in red and gold, Azarikaphels -- hand on his back. a comforting gesture as Azarikaphel soon took the sword from the hounds trembling hands, and pulled the hound into a hug. you know what he was, and I know what he was, there was nothing left in him, it was mercy for him and for the citizens, and the hound believed the heir-now emperor. he believed his red and gold friend, Azarikaphel, was right, because why wouldn't he be? and it's not like Azarikaphel was wrong. but it was only good for a few years. the hound watched as Azarikaphel became a colder, darker, red and a harsher, brighter, sharper gold. the hound watched as he became less and less worthy of life to Azarikaphel, who had by now been demanding to be called emperor, even by the hound. Azarikaphel was demanding that the hound, the man who got him to this damned throne in the first place, Azarikaphels only friend -- call him emperor whenever the hound saw him. the hound stayed silent and loyal, only partly in fear, as he was ordered to be commander of the guard by the emperor. the hound stayed quiet as he was ordered to perform execution upon execution, ordered to hurt and torture and extract and gods he-- there was nothing of Azarikaphel in the emperor. because if there was-- the hound stayed silent and loyal by the emperors side as wars were waged, as he gained new scars, as he began counting the times he'd near-died on missions from the emperor. he stayed silently loyal by the emperors side as he was forced to become more rigid in posture, be more regal, talk less, lose any emotion that restrained him from completing the mission at hand and as time went on kill and hurt more people. the hound lost and lost until there was nothing left. the hound was nearly machine like, so manipulated and propagandized he was just a husk that followed orders. the hound was nothing. but the emperor began to kill his subjects, faster and faster. the emperor began to order the hound to kill the emperors senate, guards, family, everyone the emperor felt a threat. the emperor was becoming paranoid. heavy is the crown on the kings head. heavy is the head on the executioners block. and the hound wouldn't let its master, its emperor, the last thing it had left worth being around for at this point, hurt himself more. it was over. the emperor was a cruel, menacing man who did nothing but the worst to benefit himself; a man unstable and unfit to have so much power. the hound killed the old emperor, Azarikaphels father as Azarikaphel had asked, so he could become emperor. to fix things, to help the empire become what it once was before Azarikaphel's father had been emperor. Azarikaphel said he'd make things better as emperor, and he did, for a while, but then the crown just got to him, and he just couldn't keep his head straight after gaining the crown. this mess was the hounds fault, clearly. the hound was the one who executed the old emperor. he... it allowed Azarikaphel to rise to power, to do this. this was what the hound did. right? so the hound would fix it. and on one cold night, it crept into the bedchambers of the sleeping emperor. and it went, silent, to the side of the emperors bed. raised its black sword over the emperors neck, ready to swing down, and then Azarikaphel woke up. ____ the hound isn't necessarily better than the near-god he overthrew, but he orders wars and massacres a whole lot less. a majority emotionless killing machine, the hound's extreme loyalty eventually was broken by his old emperor who eventually pushed him too far. the hound ended up murdering him in his bedchambers; not that it wasn't deserved, and not that the hound hadn't almost died in the fight himself, since the emperor woke up and realized what was happening. since the hound ascended to the throne, stopped being a simple mistreated killing dog for the ex-emperor, he has shown to have extensive knowledge of ruling and upholding laws. his subjects, some begrudgingly, do respect him; not that they really have a choice, the way the autocracy is set up.

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head details and undecidedly canon lore

K I L N E R

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Kilner was panting heavily, resting her back against the cold metal of the dark alleyway. She'd managed to steal food for them Aether, actually; there wasnt enough for both of them, there never was, but shed never tell him that. She'd lost one of her knives. The one that- the one- th... she didnt even want to think about her. They left the guard for a reason. Fled, really. She still hadnt told Aether why theyd even left in the first place.

She knew he wanted to know, but she... she couldnt do that to him. Itd break him. So she kept to herself.

A few nights ago shed pacified him with a short "it wasnt safe, okay?" before theyd broken into a rich mans home but thatd only pacify Aether for so long. Aether never pushed. He was a good man like that. But he was curious.

He was still the same guy as he was in the guard. She wasnt. She wasnt sure how she felt, in all honesty. Conflicted, of course, for leaving them all behind, but they werent the ones in danger but she wasnt going to let- to let the thing they were planning happen to Aether. Not him, not anyone.

She would protect him until it killed her. All of the wounds shed hidden from him, the stabs, the cuts from broken glass -- it was to protect him. She would not worry him. She would keep him somewhat happy. This was her duty. She would keep the smiling cadet shed known all those years ago safe. Shed done it so far, and she wouldnt stop now.

She may have been a captain before, but now she wasnt. Only that didnt mean shed leave her protectiveness and everything behind with her job.

But they've both learned, at the cost of bruised egos and bleeding wounds -- hiding only gets you so far.

Because now she has a knife in her gut. Shed been stabbed while trying to steal some food from a semi-rich guy, his guard impaling her. She recognized the guard. That was her- shed-

And she cant very well hide that from him, can she?

Possibilities raced through her mind. She couldnt pull out the knife -- its kill her. So she simply kept the pressure on it, and used her wings to push the sweat off her pale face. She rolled onto her back despite the agonizing pain, and with -- what did she have on her, even?

She felt through her pockets with red, trembling fingers, finally finding purchase. Gauze, duct tape, and disinfectant. She silently thanked the guards training for keeping her prepared.

To keep a long, gross story short, she got it out. It wasnt pretty, wold probably get infected, but it was out, and itd be easier t hide from Aether. Shed lost blood to the point where she felt lightheaded, but after resting for a few hours Aether would get worried if she didnt come back soon, the brat.

She fondly thought of him tinkering with one of his inventions in the waterway. Shed built him a crude work bench to his absolute joy, and he was at it constantly if he wasnt excitedly gushing about his next invention plan.

She carried the knife with her alongside the food for him; she already made the place look like a bloodbath, and she wasnt going to give more DNA evidence of her existence than strictly necessary. Plus, shes sure that the alley is always full of bloody people, so its... probably fine. The guard and government dont exactly test every bloodbath down here in the underbelly anyways.

Heaving herself to a sitting position, eyes pressed tightly closed, mouth open and having in broken breaths as she tried not to cry. Shed had worse than this, she was just glad she hadnt screamed yet. She didnt want to alert anyone to her less than optimal vulnerable, she thought, but she wasnt vulnerable, she couldnt be, she had Aether waiting for her, she had to get up condition.

Finally pushing herself to her feet, she straightened her back as much as possible wile still pressed against the wall it was slick with her blood, gods. Not enough to reopen the wound, but enough hat shed look intimidating as she limped through the underbelly's grimy, crime-ridden streets. They'd really fallen from grace, huh?

Finally getting enough adrenaline into her veins, she put the knife into her newly empty sheath, and began walking. She was like a dragonet in an icehouse, keeping he body flush to walls for support when possible, but having to push off of it to avoid merchants or less than safe looking people.

She kept her hood up, claws flexed, teeth bared under her mask. She looked everything but out of place. Covered in grime, sweat, glass shards, and crimson liquid. Just another bar fight, she could say. It was believable; she saw at least two others who looked like her state on the way back to her waterway.

Keeping the stolen food carefully un-bloodied, she limped down the system, passing a couple others who gave her slightly concerned looks. She kept going. Staggered at one point. Many points.

She was approaching the tunnel she and Aether lived in -- she had to pull herself together. She used a weak arm to brush most of the crusted coppery substance off her body, the blacks of her clothes hiding the other red well. She used a somewhat clean sleeve to wipe the sweat off her face, brush some hair out of her eyes. She slapped her cheeks a couple times to get color to return. She took a hesitant breath, before walking as normalcy as she could into the tunnel.

As expected, Aether was at his bench, completely focused. He didnt even notice shed arrived. Smiling despite herself, she placed the food near his leg, before going as quickly as possible to her mattress, curling up against her wings.


And when he asked, concernedly, about the blood the next morning and asked if shed eaten, she lied through her teeth. Someone elses. and I had my portion last night. And hed nodded grimly, helped her clean it off herself, and it almost felt like they were back in the guard barracks for a moment. She relished the normalcy for the short time she had it.

XIAOCAIN ONAX "damaje" - "blood mistress" - "sithspit [lit]" A single-minded somehow non-Sith force user from an obscure species with a deadly temper and no lack of snide comments. She's often referred to, when she's not around, as "Sithspit" as its kind of like a Sith spat on the ground and she formed from it. Not as good as a Sith, but maybe a piece of a Sith. Strangely, she always smells metallic; a scent very close to blood, though she only has that substance on her after a job. Otherwise, she's as physically clean as one an be as a smuggler-hitman. It is uncertain how or why she unconsciously exudes this scent, or even if any others of her species have a pheromone aura as she does. While certainly lacking a bit of foresight when attacking or killing who she's paid to, not really caring about who they serve -- unless they're Jedi, or some known crime syndicate, she doesn't do those after the last time -- she never lets her force abilities be fully seen to avoid any attempts at recruitment. At least, after taking a fallen dark siders blades, people seem much more afraid of her. She uses it to her advantage, though she isn't exactly very talented at the moment. As the scarred, darkly dressed Chagrian approaches, he takes note of how strapped the woman is. There are a series of small knives around her waist alongside small capsules filled with unknown, likely illegal, substances. Spice, he figures, though that'd be dangerous as hell. Maybe just food or money, then? He notes as well that she has two lightsabers around her waist; only they don't seem to be made out of the same stuff that the Nautolan and Togrutan Jedi's were made of. A darker metal, a darker aura. Not to mention, criminals like her shouldn't have those. She's hunched in the corner over a drink, and looks irritated, head resting on one of her metal claw-tipped hand. Her eyes are faintly glowing, and another metal claw is swirling her drink. She doesn't seem to be doing much of anything, so he invites himself over. As he sits, she looks up, squinting slightly before grumbling something vulgar under her breath. Baring her teeth slightly, she let her charcoal tongue flit over them before forcing herself to sit up properly; near rigid. She wordlessly reaches out a hand, and he understands, tossing a couple thousand credits into her covered palm. Her eyes widened imperceptibly. "You usually get paid after the job," she says, voice rough. "Why are you paying me now?" He smiles, and it's not comforting. "Well, doll, I just like to set up a little goodwill, hm? You'll get ten times this once the job is done." "And what in the nine hells am I going to have to do for it?" He hums, putting his arms behind his head and sitting back, and she narrows her eyes. He grins sharply, and her hands itch to hold a weapon; she feels a bit uneasy, and this mans laid back attitude just makes it worse. Her instincts prove right when the man next speaks. "I need you to kill a senator."

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T A R N I S H E D ─────────────────────── Traits ∙ Traits ∙ Traits ─────────────────────── When she'd been put on this assigment, she'd been bright. Happy, full of life and art and flowers. Topiark was the needed spark, the near beacon of hope and positivity for the 89th. Physically and socially, she was golden. But the war had taken it's toll. Her master had taken her toll. It was a year. A full year -- only a year, maybe, but a year of war -- on that assignment. She didn't see her old men for such a long time; she was isolated, sent on recon and intelligence missions, berated and scorned over and over. So when the time came, and she was supposed to meet with the 89th again, she was... faded. She was sharper, taller, thinner, colder. Aggressive, almost. Full of buzzing blue numbers and harsh lines and restlessness. Howler couldn't recognize her. Maybe he never would again. Maybe no one ever would again. And sh*t, if that thought didn't scare her. ─────────────────────── But now that you're dead it hurts This time I gotta know Where did my daddy go? I'm not entirely here Half of me has disappeared ───────

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"maybe this is my atonement," she whispered gleefully, blood staining her teeth. her eyes were near twitching as they sluggishly rolled past his pained face and towards the peaceful, starry sky.

"no," he whispered, "no, please no, you dont-"

"this is my atonement." she whispered harshly, choking out the last bit as blood began to pool in her throat, making her gag and cough.

"please, you have nothing to atone for," he sobbed, face collapsing into misery. "please, you cant leave. not yet."

- why do you think that?

- because im still here and he isnt.

r e v i v a l ─────────────────────── reincarnation ∙ ex-warrior ∙ gen one ─────────────────────── i remember him every time i come back to life. i remember his smile, his eyes, his crows feet, his gentle hands and his jagged knives he always kept -- keeps, kept -- at his side. i remember his loud laugh and roman nose and black hair. but he never remembers me. and then suddenly, the roles are reversed. after thirty lifetimes of pain and confusion and trying to find him and sometimes succeeding but him never remembering -- he knows me. but i never know him. › item › item › item

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› there are flashes of light as he fights from the watching valkyries blades. the autumn leaves swirl around him as he battles alongside those he did years ago, before his first untimely death; he has died some times more since then. the floor of the opening in the wood is dusty and pale, rocky and unstable, covered in dry grass. his pelt skirt swirls viscously around him as he swings his blood-drenched sword. he is younger, now, then in his first life. he has not been alive long, in this time. but he no less skilled. after wandering, desperately trying to figure out why nobody remembers him, he... decided to find a purpose. something that he used to do, something to hold onto. he joins an army. he is fighting with his sword against a dark elf; one of many that he and his fellow militia are going against. he is doing extremely well so far, has defended many who left blind spots of their own open; but he stupidly leaves a blind spot open himself, and a dark elf takes the opening. he is shoved to his back, immediately disoriented, and she stands over him in victory. his head spins. and the blade swings towards his neck, and he prepares to die, to wake up in a new body again, but -- there's a horrible clang instead. he is left gasping, the dark elfs sword stopped by a thin ornate one. and he... he recognizes it. aoskier looks up, eyes wide, heaving for air, and in the split second it takes, he sees him. the man who just saved his life -- its the man aoskier loved. the man who somehow does not remember him now. the man who had not tried to find his body after he disappeared, the man who said he was being mistaken for someone else when aoskier asked if he remembered him. his ex? loki help him, they never broke up, he just died but, old love just saved him, and his love flashes a grin his way, and the dark elf finally recalibrates herself and attempts to swing her blade into his old loves neck but he blocks, shoving her down. his love slays her as he does his meals. through the chest. aoskier is left reeling; he simply stares, desperately trying to stop gaping, and the man looks up to him, panting. his sword is still in the elves chest. "i am valguard." his love says, retrieving the sword. "i know." aoskier rasps, arms keeping him in a stagnancy between sitting and lying down. "what?" valguards thick eyebrows are furrowed. "you dont remember me." aoskier says as if it explains anything, eyes suddenly closing in a moment of odd, wistful peace even as the battle rages around them. while he offers a small, tight smile as he opens his eyes, valguard frowns. "i... i think you have the wrong man, my friend." aoskier almost sobs at that. he offers a watery smile instead. valguard offers a hand. "i always do." he responds. valguard helps him to his feet, offering a gentle smile, "take care of yourself, friend. i hope you find who youre looking for," valguard claps a large, calloused hand on his shoulder. its somehow gentle, and it reminds him of better times. warm smiles by the fire, strong hugs by a thick gray and black pelt. he is snapped out of his reminiscing when valguard says, "for now, friend, we have a battle to win."

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N A M E O C C U P A T I O N Andesine Minerals & Ores Beautiful in the raw or when polished. 85

╭━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╮ "Insert your dragon's quote here." ╰━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╯ Lorem ipsum dolor sit. Amet nam maecenas duis. At ligula consequatur vitae. Sit wisi ipsum nullam vitae et omnis nunc. Felis et rutrum in. Hendrerit ducimus est est. Amet condimentum praesent integer. Nibh sed suspendisse risus. Volutpat eu urna euismod vel gravida tortor atque. Vehicula aliquam interdum hendrerit. Quam metus erat scelerisque. Elit elit justo accumsan. Hac integer in urna varius id tincidunt sed vel iaculis quis ac. code by milkchai

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"You couldn't save him so you're trying to save me!" she yells over the fiery inferno that is now the forest. The fire loops around them, and it's closing in. "I know who you see when you look at me, but I'm not f*cking him! He -- my brother died, okay? He's dead and gone and he's never coming back!"

Carbon recoils sharply, face twisting in anguish.

"That's not why I wanted to help you!" he insists. "It -- I know you think I loved him, and that I only care about protecting you for him, but it's not about him, it's about you! You're still my friend!"

She's crying. God, how did it get this bad?

"How can you say that after everything I've done? You can't just think that you can fix me like all your other broken people! I'm not fixable, okay? I was broken a long time ago, before the takeover, and before the siege."

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aa ignore this

× All I wanted was to save you
× Interesting. You know he's gone; its almost like you think you can save him
× Its dead. Its all dead. What more is there to know? - but you aren't dead.
×
×

NAME live fast, die young. ￫ some reckless cowboy ￫ going thru his joker arc rn

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Ut tincidunt tortor dui, vitae interdum tellus egestas in. Fusce posuere, lacus in egestas feugiat, risus justo convallis libero, id consequat libero tortor id erat. Curabitur vestibulum hendrerit sem. Sed ut ipsum non libero tincidunt facilisis. Mauris leo orci, congue eu placerat at, molestie vel dolor. Mauris varius magna sed placerat efficitur. Ut rhoncus magna id fringilla faucibus. Nullam pretium elementum rhoncus. Etiam id justo et elit consectetur eleifend et vitae risus. Mauris pretium, felis id lacinia mollis, nunc tellus consectetur eros, at interdum orci sapien non ipsum. Donec malesuada mauris turpis, eget luctus nibh imperdiet id. Duis vitae dignissim dolor.

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￫ ridiculously impulsive ￫ bit of a himbo ￫ gay, but has no relationships ￫ claims relationships/friendships are useless ￫ ends up dying after choking on his own blood ￫ gets underestimated a lot ￫ also gets overestimated ￫ internally self deprecating

Crackling Leo Familiar The stars align, showing a sign of energy. (Thundercrack Carnivale 2020 Holiday Item) 0 Crackling Leo Familiar The stars align, showing a sign of energy. (Thundercrack Carnivale 2020 Holiday Item) 0 Crackling Leo Familiar The stars align, showing a sign of energy. (Thundercrack Carnivale 2020 Holiday Item) 0 Crackling Leo Familiar The stars align, showing a sign of energy. (Thundercrack Carnivale 2020 Holiday Item) 0 xxinto the spark.

K I T S U N O M O R I the twin moons

____________________________________________ Although somewhat minor, the gods of equivalence. for every man that Hiragari, the raven, kills, Kitsunko, the goldsleeve, brings one to existence. Of course, there are deviations from this rule -- years where they hibernate; the world population wouldn't grow otherwise. They are peaceful and nonjudgmental, though Hiragari is more cold, and due to him being the (minor) god of death, he is sometimes unaffectionately referred to as Gorehead. When referring to both, they are called Kitsunomori -- this is the name often found on shrines and worship places. ____________________________________________ code

a harsh war-mongering kitsune driven over the edge by the nation they represented's repetitive, never ending thirst for violence. when their nation goes to war, they are obliged to follow and fight alongside the military, as the kitsunes creed states. as decades passed, they became more conflicted and distressed over their conflict of emotion vs duty until their situation broke them down. they no longer try to resist, and simply do what is requested of them. ironically, despite their original hatred of war and violence, they are now what many people think of when battle is discussed.

they'll get a proper code soon! plus this is kinda wooden so ill add/edit more later lol

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//// ▴ C A S S A E L ▴ ━━━━━━━━━━━◇━━━━━━━━━━━ Display Plumes Organics A scarlet trail in the sky intimidates and impresses, if you're into that sort of thing. 20 Multimist Mask Trinkets A fascinating mask that was carved of whorled walnut and polished until it gleams. 53 quotes lyrics ; a few lines worth of stuff song maybe hmmm ━━━━━━━━━━━◇━━━━━━━━━━━ link / link / link / link / link ━━━━━━━━━━━◇━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ /// ///In diam eros, fermentum eget mattis quis, elementum vel nibh. Pellentesque a augue at leo faucibus feugiat nec non turpis. Morbi pellentesque mi eu auctor congue. Morbi tristique arcu nulla, nec placerat libero rhoncus a. Class aptent taciti sociosqu ad litora torquent per conubia nostra, per inceptos himenaeos.

s t o r y Cassael is like the yang to Gadreels' yin -- after both fleeing a dangerous situation, they went their own ways, but found each other years later. They became begrudgingly inseparable. Cassael is a rather soft-spoken but firm man from the Chora woods. The Chora woods were a small town underneath the Onophiel jail -- the jail that Gadreel worked in before The Incident. Cassael would help sift through books and generally help those in the village run their businesses. He was enlisted into the militia at one point, but never really saw action besides a few hunts or defensives. He loves using swords and polearms, but often didn't get the chance to use them due to his rinse-and-repeat life in the village. He isn't necessarily famous, or an overly well loved guy, but people respect him and some may nod on occasion when he passes. Though many are lead to believe differently, Cassael didn't grow up in the Chora woods -- he actually grew up in the highlands of Onophiel in mild glory and comfortable wealth. Cassael was born into a known family, but his parents were not involved in his life. Cassael was in turn raised by a family friend, a soft-spoken centaur in the Onophiel capitol, and given an incredible education. Cassael grew further from Onophiel and closer to Chora as the years went on. Cassael was forced to flee after there was a breakout event in the Onophiel jail -- Onophiel being overrun and Chora fairing no better, and was thought dead for a couple of years before resurfacing as a bounty hunter. Cassael found his way back to Gadreel. Originally, Gadreel acted the same way to Cassael as he did to outsiders, but eventually found it in himself to not... be such a jackhead. Cassael spends his time sharpening weapons, reading, writing, and bird watching. Gadreel may try to start fights, but Cassael never takes the bait. Cassael is aware that it's mostly a defense mechanism, and so he's doing what he can to help Gadreel with general interaction. They have a will they wont they kind of thing going on that's pretty obvious to outsiders, but Gadreel is uncharacteristically oblivious on that front.

"...so how are you fairing, with the deaths and all?" "fine." he answered automatically, wincing instantly at the absurdity of it.

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C A R O S H ─────────────────────── clone trooper ∙ deserter ∙ jaded ─────────────────────── As soon as the clones white-buzzed hair felt the prickle of eyes he turned around, immediately offensive. It became a more hostile glower as he realized those looking were clones themselves. They approached, white undecorated armor caked with the planets dust and dirt, blasters drawn -- which wasn't unusual -- but it set him more on edge all the same. "What?" he nearly hissed, "Come to drag me back to hell?" but he stayed silent, because with his half-mask on nobody could tell he was a clone. He fights off the flashbacks to Riskahi; the black moons, the glow of red and blood being the only color left on the desolate planet. He fights off the memories of his young general being slaughtered, and the rest of his vode fairing no better. The screaming -- and the sounds of bones shattering and the helldogs and the chaos and his batchmates pale eyes and twisted faces on the ground and the massacre and the 'we've been ordered to not send backup-' -- the clones stop in front of him. He's tense, but dares not move. "Sir, have you seen this woman?" one asks, holding up a screen. The woman seems young; a mirialan. He shakes his head. They just nod. "Report if you do." and he nods, and he's nearly shaking under his black scavenger armor as they leave. ─────────────────────── dead leaves camouflage the corpse you let breathe wasn't sabotage ───────

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A H T K A H N ─────────────────────── Traits ∙ Traits ∙ Traits ─────────────────────── The clone had to look up, if only slightly, to see his new General who was standing across from him with his arms crossed. The Kel-Dor was quite tall -- taller than the Nautolan who was discussing something with Commander Grey next to him -- and his warm tones contrasted greatly with the cold, sanitized white of Kamino's halls. "Aht Kahn," the Jedi says, putting out a large, calloused hand. The white-armored clone takes it, shaking firmly. "And you are? If you've found your name, at least." The clones eyes, under the helmet, dart to Grey -- Grey was comfortable around them. He could be too. So the clone says, "Pfira. It's Pfira, sir." Aht Kahn nods, and Pfira thinks that if there was no mask, Aht Kahn would be smiling. ─────────────────────── I am lost with a direction I am failure and perfection Without grace, but I am tired Of walking life like it's a wire ───────

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cade "rusthead" finch | we got the silencers on, b!tch you wont hear a sound | - coke white cruise ship + polite, caring, protective, gentle (usually), slick, methodical -- too trusting, reckless, impulsive, somewhat insecure, questioning -- fairly good with mechanics -- can and will go on & on about a few select topics -- adores sketching concepts for machinery and creatures -- consistently slightly frowning -- actually doesnt like flowers that much but its a good foil -- todd howard rusthead word of the day: ravening -- absoloutely has a list of words he finds cool -- ex: ravening, murked, oddball -- finds arisol and lighters a very fun concept -- may or may not be trying to make something up with a similar effect -- slight 5 o clock shadow and thicker eyebrows, semi prom. cheekbones -- respect women 2k22 -- both teams kind of guy, last woman cheated on him so hes not looking rn -- quieter, polite, averts eyes/eye contact isnt his favorite thing -- travels lower to the ground during assassinations (sweeping gestures, creeping) -- has a bucket list but doesnt allow anyone to see it -- does a fairly lazy two fingered salute in lieu of a (quieter) wave hello/goodbye -- also uses it as a small thank you on occasion -- bladed gloves for up close assassinations (ex: just swiping @ a neck vs knifing it) > go to hell, clinton kane > hell froze over, kodaline > power over me, dermot kennedy

finch