Cynric - Wilderness - (@chaoticpotato
) Jazmine @nuttysaladtree - Hilde @scales25 - Neph)
The man silently took the jerky, throwing it in his mouth to bite into for the pain so that he didn’t break another tooth. He finished stitching up his arm, putting away his supplies and disinfecting it for the third time with some more fluid from his flask. Tired, he slumped against the wall.
His head was already pounding, and he knew that he was going to feel terrible in the morning thanks to intoxication. But at the moment, he didn’t feel like dealing with that consequence and preferred sleep. After tearing off a bit of his pants leg and tying it tightly around the wound, he put his head against the wall and drifted off, soft snores emanating from his throat.
Cynric dreamed of better days, of the sea crashing against unrelenting stone, of the faint smell of blood that haunted all of the Guild’s halls. He dreamed of faces..people he had seen escape, oddly sill frozen in terror. He recognized the tall woman’s face among them, but oddly she seemed more at peace than the rest, many of whom had blood blotted across them. One in particular stuck out-a woman who seemed to be set in a expression of determination.
Odd.
Azrael- Raven ( @sanguineshadow )
Azrael immediately got the message, their form surprisingly lithe as they hopped on the wyvern.
“Got it,” they acknowledged, swinging their axe around so that it was behind their back and not close to Raven’s surprisingly weak skin.
“I guess we know which one’s the arsonist,” Azrael deadpanned, gesturing to the elf spouting purple flames from his fingers. What an incredibly foolish gesture, really, to set things ablaze. It was far from meticulous and controllable, rather, more of an uncontrolled force that you could simply start.
Azrael preferred being concise, really. It was how they had even become executioner, really.
The old executioner was a withered old man with a spirit of spitfire. Grumpy, snarling, with tattoos curled by wrinkles. He delighted in swinging the axe and wielding the tools of the torturer, and Azrael loved him dearly. He had taken them under his old wing, shown them the ways. They also hated him dearly, for the pain that he had caused on the young angry soul.
Azrael thought of him often, and how he looked when he died. He had never expected the death he had gotten.
They liked to consider themselves better at the job them him, though. The blood of Hell itself flowed through Azrael’s veins, painful even to bear. And pain was their job, anyway, better to know it like an old friend.
Azrael remained silent for a moment before a hand moved down to their ankle, pulling out a throwing knife. In almost expert precision, they leaned off of Raven to throw it at the horse and riders, a tiny sickle of silver flashing as it spilled through the air.
) Jazmine @nuttysaladtree - Hilde @scales25 - Neph)
The man silently took the jerky, throwing it in his mouth to bite into for the pain so that he didn’t break another tooth. He finished stitching up his arm, putting away his supplies and disinfecting it for the third time with some more fluid from his flask. Tired, he slumped against the wall.
His head was already pounding, and he knew that he was going to feel terrible in the morning thanks to intoxication. But at the moment, he didn’t feel like dealing with that consequence and preferred sleep. After tearing off a bit of his pants leg and tying it tightly around the wound, he put his head against the wall and drifted off, soft snores emanating from his throat.
Cynric dreamed of better days, of the sea crashing against unrelenting stone, of the faint smell of blood that haunted all of the Guild’s halls. He dreamed of faces..people he had seen escape, oddly sill frozen in terror. He recognized the tall woman’s face among them, but oddly she seemed more at peace than the rest, many of whom had blood blotted across them. One in particular stuck out-a woman who seemed to be set in a expression of determination.
Odd.
Azrael- Raven ( @sanguineshadow )
Azrael immediately got the message, their form surprisingly lithe as they hopped on the wyvern.
“Got it,” they acknowledged, swinging their axe around so that it was behind their back and not close to Raven’s surprisingly weak skin.
“I guess we know which one’s the arsonist,” Azrael deadpanned, gesturing to the elf spouting purple flames from his fingers. What an incredibly foolish gesture, really, to set things ablaze. It was far from meticulous and controllable, rather, more of an uncontrolled force that you could simply start.
Azrael preferred being concise, really. It was how they had even become executioner, really.
The old executioner was a withered old man with a spirit of spitfire. Grumpy, snarling, with tattoos curled by wrinkles. He delighted in swinging the axe and wielding the tools of the torturer, and Azrael loved him dearly. He had taken them under his old wing, shown them the ways. They also hated him dearly, for the pain that he had caused on the young angry soul.
Azrael thought of him often, and how he looked when he died. He had never expected the death he had gotten.
They liked to consider themselves better at the job them him, though. The blood of Hell itself flowed through Azrael’s veins, painful even to bear. And pain was their job, anyway, better to know it like an old friend.
Azrael remained silent for a moment before a hand moved down to their ankle, pulling out a throwing knife. In almost expert precision, they leaned off of Raven to throw it at the horse and riders, a tiny sickle of silver flashing as it spilled through the air.
| King | Under 18 | He/Him|
My hobby is bad things I love
My hobby is bad things I love
