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Post by Deleted on Aug 5, 2017 11:17:24 GMT -5
โค Members; Bambi & Sappho
โง Plot; As the gang wars in Ketterdamn get worse and worse, it appears as though the day has been saved for a smaller gang caught in the crossfire, The Styx, when a wealthy benefactor offers them a ridiculous amount of money to retrieve a lost item. However, the clock begins to tick when their new sponsor puts a proverbial gun to their heads, threatening the lives they've built up in their city. Is it possible to get the money, win the war, and find revenge on the gentry who's treated them so badly?
โก The Styx; A new gang emerging from the dust of older groups. Although not the most well funded group, they've got persistence, guts, and a very tricky leader.
Their tattoo is a black circle on the right wrist of it's members with a long, chipped sword through it.
Slowly but surely, The Styx have been building a name for themselves in the Barrel, and now have their own definite territory, known as the Stygian Circle. It consists of;
โฆ The Iron Signet - The Styx's most popular casino. Draws in plenty of money, so much so that it's started become genuine competition for the bigger gangs. It's deliberately designed as a mocking look at upper classes, given the 'Signet' portion of the name. All dealings are done directly by Hart.
โฆ The Corona - A well equipped bar, popular for drinking, socialising, and boozing with potential business partners. Velvet seats, low lighting and dark wood furnishing keep the place sexy and sleek. All dealings are done by Lifen, who passes them on in turn to Hart.
โฆ The Incredible Aeonian Circus - The Styx bought up old decrepit buildings and knocked them down to clear up a large cobblestone clearing, now home to a real money bringer that draws upper class crowds as well as locals. Not all employees are members of the Styx, but it the gang maintains control.
โฆ The Northern Docks - The most profitable piece of property the Styx own, and the one they had to fight the most to secure. All boats, coming in and out of the Lid in the Northern End, pass through the Styx first. Plenty of gangs aren't afraid to fight them for this.
โฆ The Nightjar - Home to most members of the Styx, a dull, imposing building with dark windows and a slated roof. Most of the residents prefer to spend their free time in the Iron Signet or the Corona, and only retreat back for sleep. At least there's enough space for each member to get their own 'room' - it used to be a hospital, and thin flimsy boards have been put up between beds to form 'dorms'.
โฆ The Merlot Parlor - A piece of class in amongst all the seedier businesses, the Merlot Parlor is a large outdoor pavilion in the University District, ready to be filled with stalls and vendors. It's the newest addition to the gang's artillery, and their presence here is still contested by the locals.
โข Character descriptions;
Bambi
โฆ The Leader
Hart Vikhrov | Kerch | 19 | Bisexual
Standing around 5โ10โ is the lean and lithe leader of the Styx, a young man in possession of a pair of deep-set eyes that seem to invite someone to a world of secrets or something utterly forbidden. A faint musk of smoke and wood veils him, mostly due to the locations of his work such as his own office and the serpentine streets of Ketterdamn.
The most noticeable feature about Hart may just be the way how his skin is disrupted by the by the ugly, marred scar over the left side of his face. He conceals this scar behind locks of his hair as best as possible (though a full coverage isnโt guaranteed, especially when heโs engaged in a rough scuffle), and itโs best not to probe him about its origins. The man does go notably silent when any inquires are thrown in his direction regarding it, though he does usually tend to brush it off lightly by saying that it was derived from โan unfortunate accident.โ
Because of his inability to use his left eye, heโs especially wary of his left side in general. Underneath canopies of long, dark lashes remains his one good eye - a lustrous hue of dark hazel, sharp and fox-like, retaining a light of cunning intelligence. A small, impassive smile can usually be seen dancing across this young manโs lips, and itโs a puzzle to see what truly lies in his mind.
Perhaps a nightingale is too sweet of an animal for Hart to be referred as throughout the street. With its melodic voice and small body, it seems to hold no parallels to Hartโs character, as it installs no fear. However, a bird that charms others with its beautiful song and leads someone to their death is nothing to scoff at - and thatโs exactly what Hart can and will do, if he finds that it will benefit his crew.
Hart is quite the mystery. According to many individuals who see him from afar and encircle his everyday life, the leader of the Styx only cares about himself and oftentimes has underlying motives behind his every action. It doesnโt seem that he has any qualms or remorse about manipulating people on the palm of his hand with his silvery words, either. And yet, at the same time, anyone who has been with him for a long time has at least seen him once or twice offering his hand to others in need when he thinks that no one is watching, helping them to the best of his capability in that circumstance (if they allow him, of course).
Itโs bemusing, trying to pinpoint which side of this young man is genuine and which is not. Is the pragmatic, impassive, and secretive young man the true Hart, or the rarely seen but surely existent kind-hearted individual an accurate representation of who he is? Unbeknownst to a myriad of individuals, however, because Vikhrov has a difficult time trusting others, he is able to appreciate a balanced relationship when it forms.
While Hart does have major downfalls to his personality, the prideful, courageous, and somewhat theatrical leader also has a soft side to his personality, which is usually revealed in a subtle manner, and his lips are tightly sealed when the secret of someone he cares for are entrusted with him. Itโs a different story for the secrets of those he couldnโt care less about, though. In other words, for those who share a mutual trust with him, he's strongly reliable and dependable.
One thingโs certain about Vikhrov even with the various masks he manages to utilize: heโs steadfastly loyal to his crew, and heโs not letting anyone off easily if they happen to the the reason for the damage of their wellbeing.
tl;dr: flamboyant, calculating, versatile, distrustful, steadfast, secretive
Hart still remembers that night. The flies that crawled over his glazed, blue eyes; the blood that had slid past his long fingers; the silhouette of another man against the tall, crooked walls of the abandoned house. It was the โaccidentโ that had broken what little motivation he had left, and it was the โaccidentโ that had taken away his brightest, most treasured light.
Hart doesn't remember anything else before he was brought into the looming walls of a gang - The Rivera - and was raised by Edsel, the boss who had built a fearsome reputation for himself in Kerch. Living in a gang and being personally raised by Edsel had steeled Hart to face betrayal from a young age, as it became something regularly committed, though they were also known for their unusual sense of loyalty to each other. As he grew older, he was able to shape a fortune for himself while building connections for the gang, and before he knew it, heโd climbed into the seat of Edselโs right hand, even becoming the youngest one to date in their own line of history. Every strategy he created was executed brutally, and methodically, and every trap he created was guaranteed to bring back a rat in hiding. As a proficient planner who excelled at subduing his enemies, he became a man many wanted dead. And that soon went for Edsel, as well.
Hart has made many mistakes throughout his life. Heโs done things that have followed him to no end, and heโs done things that he wishes that he can take back, but nothing can compare to the most fatal decision heโs made of letting himself befriend someone - someone one could even say he'd loved - whose life had faded right before his eyes from a plan he had not suspected. It'd been a single mistake - a sole misstep, and yet, that small mistake had cost him everything.
As expected, understanding that Edsel had been the one behind the murder had lead to Hartโs decision of leaving The Rivera, and it has labeled him as a traitor. There are still those in the Rivera who seem to respect him while resenting him all the same, and he isn't eager to meet any of them, especially their boss who still lies on the same streets, waiting for the right excuse at the right time to finally put an end to his life.
โฆ The Spider
Rafael Edkaird | Kerch | 17 | Pansexual
If there's one thing someone can say about Rafael upon first glimpse, it's that heโs pretty. Yes, pretty. And small. Rafaelโs small stature (he stands just a little above 5โ3โ) is both a personal curse and a blessing. While his slender physique makes him adequate for squeezing through tight spaces, it gives him a large disadvantage during fights against bigger opponents. This forces him to rely on his speed and his wits. (That and heโs noticed that it's a little more difficult to impress most ladies with his stature.)
Rafael possesses pale, silky hair, a heart-shaped face, and a naturally sanguine expression. Everything about his slender visage is gentle, apart from his mischievous amber-brown eyes. While they carry an affable light, it's no lie that theyโre additionally sharp and perceptive. Sometimes, theyโre even cat-like, especially when heโs focused on something.
Working in The Corona as one of its staff members means that you have to look nice, especially when youโre there as one of the faces of The Styx. If you donโt, you may as well jump off a cliff before you face none other than Hart Vikhrov. It shows in Rafael's attire, which is actually quite modest, that he's taken some time to think about how to present himself. In the bar, a long, unbuttoned black coat is swung over his shoulders, which reveals a deep, dark red shirt thatโs rolled up to his sleeves. He also wears a pair of dark pants and sleek brown boots, but the thin black gloves he wears remains with him at all times, even out of the bar. Sometimes, a black hat can be spotted on his head as well, but this is usually for when he carries out minor work for the Styx as a messenger.
Underneath his clothing - across his back and down to his waist - lies a large gash mark that heโs earned when he was little. While he doesn't mind if someone accidentally spots this, it does seem to make him temporarily insecure (even shy) which is very different from his normal persona, indeed.
Rafael is a mischievous (sometimes devious) schemer whose sleeves are never left empty. Small plots or tactics always seem to be ready at his disposal whenever he's in need of them. As his wicked and relaxed smile subtly implies, Edkaird is a guy who finds life in anything and makes damn well certain that he appreciates every bit of it, no matter how idle something may seem. Since heโs content over little things, especially when it comes to gifts or simply living his life, itโs a mystery for why heโs chosen a job like this, but hey, thatโs just how life flows. Heโs also someone who falls in love easily. Call him a hopeless romantic with a dream of moving somewhere peaceful to live, if you will; itโs always been his ideal to move out of the Ketterdamn streets to somewhere far more quiet with a partner. Traveling is his other dream.
Most individuals donโt understand Rafaelโs sheer affection for trivial matters and people, especially given the immediate environment heโs grown up in. What they donโt realize is that the lack of understanding they face when regarding Rafael works in his favour, because he oftentimes has underhanded intentions behind his behaviour (albeit they are mostly meant to be good) and is much more grounded than what most would give him credit for. Rafaelโs guise as a tactless, air-headed individual obscures a perceptive, collected, and down-to-earth strategist who rarely surfaces unless needed otherwise. So in that sense, on the flip side of his usual personality, heโs serious, stern, reserved, and even imperturbable.
With all this in mind, for Rafael Edkaird, the safety of his crew come before his pride.
tl;dr: jocose, magnanimous, gentle, lax, insightful, down-to-earth
Rafael was the eighth son of a wealthy family and had a relatively easy - almost static - life until he threw all that out the window when someone waltzed into his life: Zamir Nejen. Because of the status he was born to, he had the privilege of picking up different assets (reading, writing, music, language). This may be the reason for why he seems to have a keen eye in any form of art and a highly trained ear for music notes. Even now, given the chance, he's able to effortlessly play a song just after listening to it once.
However, while his past life sounded like an easy one to have, his mother and father were polar opposites, and the status they held at the time had greatly restricted Rafaelโs freedom. His mother, a thin, ill young woman with a patient smile was a sharp contrast to his callous father who was intent on selling off his children for profit and beneficial social connections.
Rafael earned the long scar across his back in a significantly important concert when he failed to strike the correct note on one of the many instruments he'd been juggling from his father, whoโd regarded the single mistake as a streak of rebellion and utter shame for his family. While he may not admit it openly, the humiliation, disappointment, and fear that heโd felt that night in his home had cut deep in the young boyโs weary heart. Zamir seems to have emerged in his life just around the time when it was announced that he would have his own arranged marriage to a stranger.
Cutting ties with his family would not be an easy task, especially with how adamant his father was about regarding his own children as a profitable possession. Running would result in a flood of guards and soldiers, and as an inexperienced boy on the streets, he understood that he would be hunted down in a matter of days. In order to avoid this and to join Zamir, whoโd appeared as a miraculous second chance for Rafael, he did possibly the one most wildest things in his life: he faked his own death, changed his surname, and stepped into a completely different world that offered him more freedom than he couldโve ever imagined obtaining.
The only individual who still knew of his existence when he left was his mother, and the last time Rafael had discreetly visited her, she'd become nothing but a name carved in old stone.
โฆ The Sniper
Zera Zeddrid | Ravkan | 19 | Demisexual
Itโs Zeraโs dark and weary eyes (the color of bitter, insipid coffee) that usually warns strangers before they think twice about approaching her casually. Her eyes are like those of a hawk on a hunt, which easily gives off a cold impression. Framed by dark lashes, her orbs rest beneath her low brows, and it's this that gives her a look of nonchalance (one that seems to be stuck in between a slight scowl and a look of complete impassiveness). Additionally, perhaps it may depend on oneโs imagination, but something about her gaze seems to tell a long, long story.
Standing a little shorter than 5โ5โ with an imposing demeanor that makes her seem taller than she really is, Zera is lean and surprisingly muscular underneath her attire, indicating a trained fighter who is familiar with brawls and scuffles on the streets of Ketterdamn. One may describe her to be made of both angular and rugged lines, though strangely enough, her deceptively youthful face and button-like nose can appear to be soft more than anything.
Itโs notable that her short, feathery, black hair is trimmed a little on the side while the rest fall over her eyes and trail down to her nape. A scar runs up a little from her right chin, though itโs barely noticeable upon first inspection. It definitely hasnโt been the first time Zera's been mistaken for a young, ruggedly handsome boy. And in all honesty, she doesnโt particular care about being mistaken for one.
She mainly dresses in dark clothing, making it easy for her to camouflage amongst a crowd of people. Zera has two thin, silver rings: one around her thumb and one around her index finger. Theyโre rarely seen off, as she strongly refuses to place them elsewhere. When they are gone from her hands, however, it usually means there's business to be carried out. During her work, she usually has a pair of black gloves with her.
As a guarded young woman, nobody knows much about Zera, or how those gears in her head churn. Her ideals and thought processes remain shrouded with mystery, which may precisely be the reason for the rumours that peskily buzz around her like curious flies. They always return to whisper in her ears, because she couldnโt care less about swatting them away or putting them to their merciful end. But if thereโs one thing certain about Zera Zeddrid thatโs been confirmed in the midst of all these rumours, itโs that understanding and forgiveness are not two traits that come familiarly to this young woman. If you cross her once, be prepared to face the wrong end of a pistol.
The way Zera phrases her coarse words tend to be blunt, condescending, and even insulting, especially towards those who have managed to earn her disdain (and itโs even worse when it comes to officials or those with high status). This small lingering resentment might have come from her previous and current occupation, both which require remaining uncaught and discreet. As for fights, Zera may just be the first to provoke one with her nonchalant yet sharpened tongue. It may not seem like it, but she does enjoy a good fight once in awhile, and when sheโs engaged in one, it's easy to see just how relentless she can be. You could even say sheโs like a vicious wolf that's been trapped behind bars for too long.
Itโs also no lie that her obedience is strictly limited to certain individuals. Because she is fiercely independent, anyone who tries to boss her around can expect her full disengagement. However, while it is rare, unexpected, and kept tightly pushed behind her indifferent mask, Zera can be quite compassionate, especially towards those who have earned her trust, and this aspect of the Styxโs Sniper can be seen through the actions she displays. Sheโs always been more of an action over words person, anyway. Ignore the harshness that seems to emanate from her, and youโll find a rather sympathetic young woman who cares about her gang underneath. In fact, Zeddrid is willing to go far in order to secure the gangโs wellbeing and possesses a strong distaste for unnecessary casualties, even though she wonโt hesitate to take a swing when she finds someone to be distinguishably irking.
tl;dr: dauntless, efficient, ruthless, intelligent, blunt, abrasive
As a sniper, her eyes are extremely keen, which may be the reason for why she has an inhumanely acute reflex. While Zera is more than capable of hand-to-hand combat (her strength allows her to match any larger or more muscular individuals) sheโs notably far more skilled at what sheโs been trained to do: shooting things down. Give her a gun, and youโll have opponents, both near and far, gone in no time.
It may not seem like Zera works, because itโs easy to spot her with a drink in her hand, but she works as a supervisor in any of the areas that require her aid, keeping an eye out for any trouble that may occur. Her respect is limited, but itโs there for the current members of the Styx, so she may be willing to tolerate one or two occasions of being bossed around.
Her history is unknown.
โฆ The Specialist
Yvette Greshnev | Ravkan | 19 | Pansexual
Careful about this one; sheโs a tiger disguised as a daydream. While Yvette is more than capable of carrying herself with the stoic grace of an officer, sheโs also able to stomp down the stairs of the Corona (especially when sheโs both angry and worried for someone) with more ferocity than that of an untamed bear.
Yvette stands a little above 5โ2โ while possessing an overall gentle visage, slender build, and feminine waist. Her honey-brown eyes are both perceptive and warm, and itโs noticeable that she carries herself with an amiable atmosphere (even during times of distress). Locks of her dark, mocha hair usually cascade down her shoulders in soft waves, though they can be pulled together in a tight tail from time to time for the sake of efficiency. Her skin is sun-kissed as a result of the various work she carries out throughout the day, and two moles can be spotted over her throat. She is, however, surprisingly muscular underneath her clothing. Her hands, while seemingly delicate, are rough and calloused from gripping the hilt of a sword for so long.
One of the greatest charms this young woman displays is the wealth of facial expressions she creates that express her heartfelt emotions. True, there are times when sheโll put up a mask in order to overwhelm her opponents under specific circumstances, but for the most part, the emotions in her eyes are written out like an open book for the world to see. Perhaps it is this genuine and honest touch to her character that makes her such a reliable and trustworthy individual.
Itโs impossible to associate the words โcoldโ and โimpassiveโ with Yvette, though โfieryโ doesnโt impeccably resonate with her personality, either. Sheโs more of a glowing hearth providing warmth rather than an inferno relishing in destruction and a drop of golden light that offers guidance rather than a harsh streak of white that blinds the eye. While it is true that Yvette can be stingy and bossy, sheโs deeply compassionate, making her an individual who will dedicate her life to searching for a cure for those she loves, should they ever be cursed. In fact, itโs her soft-heartedness - the notion of being susceptible to compassion - that oftentimes goes against her in the harsh streets of Ketterdamn, as she seeks for the hint of good in even the worst of people.
While Yvette remains as a perceptive, serious, and resourceful member of the Styx, itโs easy to realize that sheโs a loyal individual, especially when sheโs in the company of the people sheโs come to trust. Conscientious and hardworking are two words that suit her without a shadow of a doubt. Furthermore, she harbors a deep sense of honor, making her one of the most least likely individuals who will go back on their word and (literally) stab someone in the back. Forbearing, affectionate, easily moved, and easily embarrassed, sheโs far from being a hostile addition to the crew. Itโs her resolve, cleverness, and astute eye that makes her an enemy to be wary of, counterbalancing the heavy damage sheโs potentially vulnerable to as her empathy strongly enforces.
Greshnev can be competitive, especially when it comes down to facing herself, since she determinedly challenges her own abilities and perceptions without hesitance, though itโs her good sportsmanship that ultimately enables her to genuinely applaud others for their achievements, even if it means her own downfall. Stoic, loyal, and committed, sheโll see through any task thatโs given to her on time, though she isnโt afraid to reasonably speak against something that goes against the fairness she believes in. Overall, Yvette is warmhearted, passionate, and merciful; her kindness remains unyielded to the brutality of the streets. If someone wishes to bring misfortune to The Styx, however, theyโd better be prepared to face a cutthroat who knows exactly how to get what she wants with the end of her blade.
tl;dr: affectionate, loyal, perceptive, determined, stubborn, hardworking
Her history is unknown.
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Sappho
โฆ The Demolition Expert
Lifen Aakster | Shu Han/Kerch | 19 | Lesbian
A tall, well dressed young woman with a heart shaped face, Lifen gets most of her looks from her Shu Han mother, including her skin tone and facial features, though her Kerch father prevents her from having the typical golden eyes. Instead they're a pale grey.
Her hair is long, straight and a silky black, that she either ties up in a coil the whole way around her head, or leaves hanging down, with the small ponytail of top layer hair tied back.
She mainly dresses in the smart and colourful suits of the Barrel; a Yale Blue suit with a white blouse and floral tie, as well as sensible loafers (matching the colour scheme, of course).
Underneath that suit is a toned and strong body not afraid to fight. Lifen requires reading glasses, and has a little half moon pair on a chain, tucked away in her breast pocket when not in use. Her ears are pierced with navy stones, and she normally has some kind of flower in the button hole of her suit and a tasteful necklace. On her middle finger of her right hand is a neat silver ring with a blue opal stone.
Known as 'The Magpie' among some circles, Lifen has earned this nickname by being clever, aggressive, and not afraid to take what she wants. Confidence has never been an issue to the talkative, vivacious and cynical lady and there's nothing she enjoys more than a healthy debate, but sometimes words just don't convey her full opinions, y'know? And she has to start a fight, she just has to!
As the unofficial second in command of the Styx, it's fair enough to say that Lifen does get away with things other members wouldn't, but she's not afraid of stepping up to the responsibilities of her unofficial role and being the bad guy. More than once she's thrown people, literally, out of the Styx's club and casinos. She has a pretty poor understanding of boundaries, and often goes too far with something, and is too proud to back out of it.
She has zero shame and it seems like nothing embarrassed or scares her. Five kurge to eat a bug? Done. Walking in on someone getting changed? Whatever, we're both human, and this conversation is actually quite urgent, stop yelling.
She's got a quick, observant mind that isn't afraid to think dirty to win. As her nickname suggests, she has a love for shiny things, sharing the typical Kerch attitude to money, and isn't above being bribed by friends to do something with a pretty pair of earrings. Despite wearing a suit, and often behaving the opposite of ladylike (who was that burping? Why are you asking, of course it was Lifen.) she does have quite feminine tastes, and loves pretty things. Her room in the Styx's base is full of little things, useless bric-a-brac she's collected over the years that she'd never let go of. Despite her careless and blunt way of speaking, Lifen can be ridiculously sentimental over her little trinkets, and does not take well to be teased about it, or having anyone mess them around.
The reason she makes a good second in command is her ability to make tough decisions. She doesn't faff around, doesn't waste time or energy - if you want something tough done, put Lifen Aakster on the case and it'll be done before the sun sets. She's pragmatic, loyal, energetic, and communicative, even though the way she communicates is often quite rude, but most of all, she is reliable.
She can hold her own in a fight with her hands, however her weapon of choice is a long black whip, named Rook, that she keeps curled up in a coil at her waist pretty much all the time. The Magpie's become quite the figure around the Barrel, and her devastating aim with Rook helped earn her some respect in tougher streets. Of course, her real talent is her skill with bombs.
Most of the time these days, Lifen doesn't actually fight in scraps, but her bombs and flash grenades make very common appearances. Lifen's mind is hardwired for science, given her talent at Demo, but she's also quite good with numbers, and keeps track of the Styx's books and accounts. As second in command, she also acts as a an ambassador for her gang and occasionally a messenger. She often carries around a black satchel, filled with her explosives.
A Kerch tailor and a Shu Han lawyer married and had two daughters; Dandan and Lifen, a three year gap between the former and the latter. The family settled in Shu Han permanently, and though it was all Lifen knew for a long time, she spoke Kerch and Shu Han fluently, as her father didn't want either of his girls to struggle with languages like he had, should either of them choose to leave.
There was nothing too unusual about the sister's bound in the earlier days - sometimes they fought, but they mainly got along pretty well, and Lifen idolized her big sister.
As they got older, Dandan resented having to bring Lifen with her everywhere she went, as big siblings can be wont to feel, and they started to grow apart as Dandan matured. Lifen, not wanting to be left behind by her best friend, tried to 'grow up' too so that they could still play together, but this only annoyed by big sister further and made her rebuff Lifen altogether. They stopped talking, stopped hanging out, and after a while, memories of being close seemed almost fabricated out of Lifen's own imagination.
When she started to grow herself, Lifen, now 15, resented her sister for cutting her off and forgetting what they'd had, and was determined to make something of herself, to prove that Dandan had made a mistake by thinking she wasn't worth her time. She began doing small jobs for a local gang, running numbers and carrying parcels, but also watching how the gang worked, trying to memorize the mechanisms of the industry.
Gradually, she moved up in the group, and by the time she was 17, Lifen was going on major operations, and helping smuggle weapons across the border into Ravka. She thought she could handle this, but on a job one night, she ran into Dandan, who had gone on to work for the Royal Palace as a translator. Looks like that dual language scheme payed off.
The two sisters broke into an argument, each one cursing the other for betraying their family, and they were so distracted that they didn't notice that the job had gone bust and that the Royal Soldiers had found them. Terrified, Lifen shoved what she had into Dandan's arms and ran, leaving her sister behind. She hid, scared for her life and ashamed of leaving her sister, and in the morning, made for the Land Bridge that would take her for Kerch.
She knew her sister would be jailed, framed by her own little sister, and her parents would be heartbroken, so she couldn't stay.
She walked the three day trek to Ketterdamn, and arrived exhausted, penniless, and feeling truly wretched in every sense of the word. At least she spoke the language (though she wasn't ready for the accent). She took jobs she knew, back to square one with running numbers, but this time in a small accounting firm.
It wasn't a very good job, and the business was failing, but she made enough there to get herself on her feet, and merge into the city completely, as if she'd lived there her whole life. She eventually met Hart and left her dying firm for a gang the second she could, this time however, as a head of business instead of a lackey.
She's not entirely certain what happened to Dandan, but good kurge would say she's serving a sentence she didn't earn, and sitting in a cell, seething, waiting for her chance to get out.
โฆ The Actor
Zamir Nejen | Suli | 18 | Gay
The thing about working in the circus is that no one comes to see how life really is - the long hours, the sweat, the bad pay, the tears, they come to see the smiles and the glitter, which is why Zamir is so good at his job. He's tall for a young Suli man, but not too tall for anyone else, standing at around 5"6. He has a slim, streamlined body that adds to his whole androgynous look, as does his hair. Thick, curly black hair sits on top of his head, with most of it brushed to the side, so that the curls flop teasingly over half his face, accentuating its high cheekbones and sharp angles. His exposed left ear is pierced multiple times along the cartilage and he has a long dangling black pearl hanging from his lobe.
He has a paper thin white scar splitting his upper lip. Zamir has heterochromia, his right eye is a dark brown and his left is a paler shade of green.
Zamir does his own stage makeup, typically dramatic blacks and golds, on his eyes, lips and sides of his face. He brushes fake gold leaf through the tips of his hair on show nights, though it gets washed out quickly after.
On stage, he wears a deep navy, almost black, skin tight costume decorated with golden stars, and matching feathers in his hair. He also has a translucent, azure silk scarf with silver moons and tiny mirrors on it as he flounces around. In normal life, he prefers a skinny black turtleneck, cream and white waistcoat, black trousers, silver boots and a black greatcoat. Occasionally he'll even do his own makeup, but it's a lot of effort.
Eloquent and confident, Zamir has style, but he can come across as lazy, frosty and rude when you first meet him. He's got a crude wit, a very dry and catty sense of humor, and he bounces from rakish lewdness to pessimistic drawls in about two seconds. He does his best to hide any emotion he has under some kind of barbed comment, which normally has a creative and very specific threat in it. In truth, though Zamir has been known to get into a fight or two, he's a fairly relaxed man who takes serious provoking before he's actually pushed into physical response.
He's a bit dense when it comes to emotions and isn't always the most sympathetic or comforting person to be around but if you can ignore one or two empty threats, he's sharp as a tack and very articulate, it's easy to get a good conversation going. Zamir was born to be on a stage, a good entertainer whether he's under stage lights or simply among friends. His loud, sonorous voice is quite pleasant, and he purposefully rolls his Rs to add to his accent. Zamir gets all the best gossip and seems to have infinite knowledge on people's personal lives, to the point where it borders on scary. Though he swears he'll keep your secret, don't trust him, he's shifty and is always dying to tell someone about something.
He doesn't know how to deal with compliments, and can be flustered by someone being sweet to him, yet he isn't afraid to start swinging when called upon to fight. To his own small inner circle, Zamir is dependable and chatty, easy to get on with and normally supportive, under his cloak of sarcasm, but to the rest of the world, he'll greet them with a knife in his pocket and curse on his tongue. He can be hard to motivate, and infuriatingly vain, not a fan of getting his hands dirty, and when bossed around, he becomes rebellious and insolent, doing anything he can to be a bother. If he respects whoever's in charge, and they respect him back, it's fine, and he'll do as he's told, but if someone demands his trust, time, and energy out of the blue, you can bet your right foot he'll dig in his feet and refuse to cooperate.
He has a good eye for art, and does for sketches in the spare time he has, though is quick to call them garbage and get rid of them. Zamir's a lot smarter than he lets on most of the time, and is constantly listening in, keeping his ear to the ground. He's excellent as the Actor he needs to be, but when he's not needed for things like that, he does what he can for the Styx by staying on top of any gossip he hears. Despite all his scoffing and sneering at unclothe members, Zamir cares deeply about his gang and will do what it takes to keep them happy and healthy (except admitting he cares about them).
Working in the circus has kept Zamir in good shape, and he fights with a lot of flair, though he hardly ever fights at all, if he can avoid it. He's a Tidemaker, something he doesn't both trying to hide, and initially just used The Styx as protection from people who may want to sell him in an indenture. He never had official training and it shows when he uses his powers; he's not nearly as controlled as a Tidemaker from The Little Palace would be and he knows it, but Ketterdamn isn't exactly crawling with elite Grisha soldiers, so he's still a head and shoulders above most others here. He can change water to ice, or steam, and back again, help move the fog in the harbour around to cloak him or his allies as well as creating a tiny water whip, but that's about as far as his powers go.
He has flask at his side filled with water, should he need it during fights.
They're mainly for effect on stage, rippling the water in his 'scrying bowl' when he tells the crowd it's fortunes. Most of the circus gig isn't too bad, he doesn't mind doing somersaults and cartwheels, or holding something for the stage magician, or trying to get the audience to cheer louder, but he hates having to do his fortune tellings.
If any of the people in the audience saw a real Suli fortune telling, they'd know it. Zamir's fake jackal mask, stupid terracotta bowl, and cheap rug he sits cross legged on don't even come close to the real thing, and the fortunes he tells are even worse than his props. If he actually told those people what he was thinking he'd be fired on the spot, and probably make a kid or two cry. Not as useful as his paycheck, sure, but definitely more satisfying.
Due to his steady hand and artistic eye, Zamir often does the tattoos of the new members.
Like the majority of Suli people, Zamir comes from a long line of travellers and never stayed in one place long. His family mostly roamed up and down the Ravkan coast, fringing on the True Sea. He never knew his mother and father, only a tall bearded man known as 'Uncle' by the kids his age and a bit older in the wagons they travelled with, and 'Boss' by the grown ups. He was a tough leader, not afraid to teach kids a lesson if they wouldn't stay in line, and Zamir was one of his more frequent visitors after he'd been up about causing trouble.
The young boy didn't pretend to love, or even care much for his 'Uncle', there was no way they were actually related through blood, and he didn't want to know how he'd come to be travelling with this crew; if he was given away or taken. 'Uncle' didn't seem to care much for Zamir either, and frequently told him that he was lazy, disrespectful, and a bad spot on their hardworking family. These things were all true, so he would just shrug in response, and usually be given another punishment for cheek. Zamir was about 16, going through the transition of no longer calling Uncle 'Uncle', but 'Boss' when he decided to take his life into his own hands.
Unlike the majority of Suli people, Zamir is incredibly secular, and has no time for talk of spirits or saints. He just never saw the point, never understood the attraction. He would be brought before the grown ups time after time and told the importance of their religious icons, the stories would be told over a million times, he'd even be encouraged to pick a favorite. After a while they got sick of trying to be persuasive, and told him if he didn't want to be part of their community, he didn't have to be.
This was harsh on a ten year old's heart, and though Zamir will pretend now that he can't remember whether he cried or not, he took the sentiment to heart, and from that day on, was always planning how to get away from these people. Of course, however, it wasn't smooth going, and he wasn't just getting his collar felt for his lack of piety.
He didn't want to learn the skills other children his age were learning, he didn't want to walk the tightrope and he didn't want to standing on a horse's back as it cantered in a circle. Soon his attitude towards the travelling circus became very similair to that of the saints his family worshipped; incredibly disillusioned. This life was exhausting, he could see it reflected in the faces of the people around him. They were always tired, always kicked out of town, always packing and unpacking. The circus could be bearable (maybe) if it was stationary, though sometimes Zamir would lie awake at night and think he'd never wash the small of it out from his fingers. He didn't want this, and he made his opinion perfectly clear. In retaliation the Boss, as he was now known, made his opinion perfectly clear, resulting in the little scar dancing across Zamir's upper lip.
As it was, he was not a popular figure in his little community, Zamir firmly believed they felt no love for him, and so he was determined to feel no love back. He was going to leave, they all knew it, some of the more worried adults advised against it, told him life was difficult out there, and people were cruel, especially to Grisha, as he'd revealed himself to be, and just because things could be tough around here didn't mean it was the worst place on earth. He didn't even have to be on stage if he didn't want to, he could help out behind the set, and never have to even look at a flaming hoop ever again.
Zamir is a lot of things, but he is not a quitter, and no matter how worried some of the adults appeared, he knew he was going, and he was going with a bang.
Leaving was one thing, but vanishing was another, and Zamir knew that his plan needed him to never be seen again, because the Boss would surely leave a reckoning on him that would result in more than a bruised eye and a split lip. Zamir planned on stealing the Boss' money pouch, there was enough gold in there to get him across the True Sea if he wanted it. And he did. It was not an easy thing to steal, as he wore it around his neck constantly, but Zamir's light fingers, so far only getting him as far as some water tricks and a couple of drawings, payed off as he was able to sneak into the Boss' caravan and untie the pouch from it's string and slip out again.
To add salt to the wound, he also took the Boss' horse, and then dumped it in the little sea shore town where he got the boat out, sure that someone would adopt a fine looking thing like that.
Getting to Ketterdamn several months later, after spending time in Novyi Zem, and eventually meeting Rafael, it was pretty bitter that the only job he could land was in the bloody circus, but at least some of his background payed off and he knew what he was doing.
He's just doing his best to lay low here for a while, and if he were the praying kind, he'd be praying to whoever he could that he never sees a face from his past ever again.
โฆ The Medic
Roksana Voronin | Ravkan | 17 | Bisexual
A short, broad girl with a tough look to her, chin often titled in an air of defiance, despite having nothing to be defiant about. Roksana has thick, frizzy, dirty blonde hair that hangs past her shoulders, shot through with paler streaks around her face where the sun has bleached it. When working, this hair is pulled back in a thick braid, the wispy bits at the front falling down to frame her face.
She has a strong nose and clefted chin as well as faded heathery eyes and bow shaped pink lips.
It seems like all the saturation has been sucked out of Roksana, all her colours seem dull and tired, even her skin looks grey. Her hands are tough and calloused, often stained from shoe polish, though her arms and legs are thick and strong.
She's on the short side, standing at about 5"2, but isn't afraid to make herself heard.
Roksana can't afford pretty clothes, and wears an ancient woolen dress with long sleeves and a hemline that reaches halfway down her shins. Over this she has a faded white apron with a large pocket at the front and a thick leather belt to give it some shape. A dull pink bandanna across the top of her head stops her wild hair from getting in her eyes and is on pretty much all the time. On her feet she has brown boots that are going grey with all the wear, but have yet to fail her. During the summer months, she's roasting, so she works closer to the water where there's more of a breeze.
Roksana is very no-nonsense. She doesn't have the time or the energy these days to be running around at night drinking herself silly, and she certainly doesn't have the patience to deal with other gang members the next morning who have. People can call her a 'stick in the mud', or short tempered, or a sour puss, but the truth is, she's too tired to feel anything but annoyance most days. The purple shades under her eyes don't come from nowhere after all, they come from three jobs and homesickness. For all of her frowning and rolling of the eyes, Roksana is a good person to have around when the going gets tough. She's not at all squeamish or faint hearted, she hasn't had a sick day since she was born, and throws herself into everything 100%, If something is worth doing, she believes it's worth doing right.
Roksana's a quick learner, nothing keeps her down for long, and she doesn't stop at anything until she's got it done how she wants it. She's pretty brave too, and does her best to keep a level head whenever other people get distressed. Admittedly, she can be hard to be around most days, and seems to go out of her way to ruin everyone's fun, but when the stakes are raised and things get hairy, her normal shrewdness and plain ol' elbow grease become a blessing. She's not easy to flatter, believing anyone who flirts or approaches her is either selling something or playing a prank, and can shoot down even the most persistent peddler. It may appear that she doesn't care much about her appearance, but in little moments of weakness, she does long for softer hair, or more generous curves or even one pretty dress to wear. She hates herself after these little blimps, refusing to accept them as natural, adamant that she doesn't care about those things.
She's awkward around a large crowd, not in a shy way, but in a 'these people are so loud and I hate all of them' kind of way. Despite being on one of the lowest rungs in Ketterdamn, this very private girl has a superiority complex, and can look down her nose at anyone, even landed gentry a million miles above her. She's proud, arrogant at times, and likes to think she works alone. Roksana doesn't like charity, she doesn't like being offered help she doesn't need, and she really doesn't like being told to calm down. When she's annoyed, she's loud and expressive, waving her hands around, pointing fingers and occasionally stamping her foot. Roksana blushes very easily, from anger, happiness, sorrow, and of course, humiliation, and her whole face lights up; ears, cheeks, the bridge of her nose, spreading right down to her collar bone. It can take her all day to calm down, but it's a lifetime before she forgets anything. No one has a better recall of everyone who's ever annoyed her then Roksana, and no one is more petty about those little annoyances either.
When it comes to new people, she's automatically suspicious of everyone, and it takes a lot to get into her good-books. She'll say she isn't impressed by pretty clothes and heavy wallets (because she's actually dying of envy), but if you can sit down with her and stomach a conversation about beet farming and the state of youth today, you've got yourself a loyal friend for life. Underneath her rough and tough exterior is a very tired young girl who would never forget someone who was kind to her. She wasn't always so hard to be around after all. Maybe she's homesick. Or heartbroken. Or both? She doesn't think too heavily about anything like that these days.
Roksana is a decent enough fighter with a pretty little silver dagger she named Minnow. Minnow is, without a doubt, the nicest thing she owns, and definitely the most expensive, so she keeps it safe in a tiny leather sheath (purposefully plain looking) on her belt.
Her real skill, however, is in her healing abilities, as Roksana is a Corporalki Grisha, though she's never donned the crimson keftas of Ravka. Roksana is able to mend broken bones, split arteries, lacerations and bruises - the lot. She also has a small gift as a Tailor, able to change her own, or other's, appearance with the help of dyes and tools. Her Grisha abilities are a well kept secret, known only by the leader and coleader of the Styx, and she plans on keeping it that way. She's seen the way Grisha are treated in Ketterdamn, she knows how the minds of these money obsessed people work, and she's not going to put herself on the line like that. Letting Hart know about her abilities was a real gamble, and she isn't always certain she made the right choice, but she needs the job, and it does pay well.
She works several minor jobs for the Styx as a smoke screen for her healing abilities; a numbers runner for bets on the street, a shoe polisher, and a flower seller. Not many flowers grow in the Barrel, but she has a little lavender stall in the nicer area Ketterdamn, where she sells the sweet flowers she's managed to grow in a window box. This job means that she always smells faintly of lavender, a little touch, but a nice one.
Roksana doesn't live in the Nightjar with the others, but has a small apartment in Little Ravka, where she feels safer, and also better about herself. Little Ravka is a haven for her, and helps her forget the dregs of society she is now forced to work with.
Born in a small northern town on the outskirts of Ravka, Roksana lived with her family most of her life, as she was never officially tested for Grisha abilities when she was younger.
When her abilities showed themselves however, she began learning how to use them on her own, not wanting to leave everything she knew behind her to go to the Capital and be put in some fancy school. It was at home she learnt how to make butter, and bread, and whittle wood and shuffle cards. All her friends were here, and her family, and she was glad to be an important part of the community.
It looked like her ego ballooned when she started using her powers to help out around the town and became something of a local celebrity. However, her popular status backfired when a Fjerdan raiding party crossed the border to her town and threatened to burn it if they didn't hand over any known Grisha. She did her best to conceal herself, but she was ratted out by scared neighbours and family members, before being handed over to the invaders.
The town was divided between those who wanted to help her and those who wanted to save themselves, and a riot quickly broke out as the townsfolk tried to drive the Fjerdans away or flee themselves.
In the confusion, Roksana ran to the harbour and hid on a boat, passing out from the stress and panic of the day. When she woke, she was halfway across the True Sea to Ketterdamn, and was too scared of being thrown overboard if she spoke up, so stayed silent the whole time. Knowing she got lucky once, and couldn't risk stowing away again, Roksana decided to make as much money as she could as quickly as she could in Ketterdamn so she could sail back.
However, her resentment of being handed over by her own family and friends made her hesitant to go back at all in the end, and she's lived here for a year and a half now, with no intention of moving. She isn't sure what she wants anymore, and isn't even sure that her town would still be there to return to. What would she say to the people who sold her out if she did return? How long would it be before there was another raiding party? The only thing she was certain of was that she didn't have the home she once had, and couldn't place all her bets on ever returning there.
Ravka as a whole now seemed barren and distant, as if she'd never even lived there in the first place.
Terrified by the treatment of Grisha here, the ones that go missing in the nights and the ones enslaved by day, she's kept her talents under lock-and-key, known only to Hart, Lifen and two or three higher members of the Styx.
โฆ The Muscle
Killian Manus | Kaelish | 19 | Bisexual
Killian has only ever wanted to fit in, but that has never been a dream recognized. Standing at 6"8, and with a body built like a tank, he always stood out. In Ketterdamn it's even worse because his fiery hair isn't the norm it is back home. Killian's hair is a rich, coppery red, feathery and soft to touch, that hangs down past his chin in gentle waves. Normally he has his hair tied back off his face to keep it from getting in his eyes, which are bluish green in colour.
He has to shave everyday, or else he gets a ginger afternoon-shadow before it's even 12. His shoulders are broader than most of the skinny doorframes in Ketterdamn (everything here is so SMALL), and his arms and legs are thick and packed by muscle, meaning he enters most rooms sideways and ducking his head. Getting stuck in a doorframe is pretty embarrasing.
His skin is tough from working on his family farm all his life, and a salty white. Freckles dance all across his face , though his forehead, normally covered by a fringe, seems to be spotless. The right side of Killian's face is covered in tiny white scars, each one pointing in a different direction, some of them intersecting, curling his lip and the corner of his eye upwards. He has plenty of little blemishes all over his body, but these are the most notable.
Killian doesn't have a lot of money, and the clothes he wear tend to be plain and hardy; a white undershirt, unbuttoned green overshirt and loose beige jacket, dark trousers and hard wearing boots. When on jobs, he tends to roll his shirt sleeves up to expose his sinewy arms, and wear the uniform of whatever bar he's staying outside of.
Shy doesn't seem to be the right word for him at first glance, but it is. Killian is a very large ball of anxiety. He'll rarely speak first, even in a group of old friends, in fact he barely speaks at all, and keeps his best ideas to himself. In his line of work, people aren't looking for good ideas, after all, they're looking for a solid left hook. He doesn't take too well to be teased or laughed at, and could never imagine himself speaking to a crowd.
However, he's stubborn, and his unwillingness to speak his mind shouldn't be mistaken for a flighty nature. He has strong morals, and joining a gang was difficult for a young man who's very against violence, but he's not a dreamer, and he knew that work was tight in this busy city. Like a lot of people from the Wandering Isle, Killian is majorly superstitious, any clichรฉ you can think of, he genuinely believes in it, especially those about the Dead. He leaves out little offerings during full moons, sprinkles salt around his bed and always has a cream candle on him, just in case something afraid of light needs to be chased away. His attitude towards Grisha used to be heavily influenced by his homeland - that their blood is a magic cure all, and you should do whatever it takes to get it, but since coming to the cynical city of Ketterdamn, he's started to doubt the authenticity of some of these claims.
In a fight, Killian is a player you want on your team. It's almost like he's too busy being afraid of any social interaction to worry about dying in a brawl. However, Killian isn't above being gentle, and has a naturally charitable disposition, he's also great with animals, particularly cats. He's surprisingly helpful after fights as well, bandaging wounds and washing cuts. It seems like after being in so many, he's learnt what to do without ever studying it. He rarely ever accidently breaks something or trips and falls, because he's so careful in how he interacts with the world and painfully aware of his size. It takes a lot to rile up his temper, but when he is angry, he can be tough to deal with. Cold, sullen and always teetering on the edge of violence, Killian can be a scary guy to be around if he feels like it. Sometimes he just gets sick of always being told when and where to fight that he just embraces it instead of trying to remember his moral instructions.
After being bullied as a young child, he's very self conscious of every aspect about himself; his body, his voice, even the way he walks. Though he could fight until the cows come home, if backed into a corner by someone with a sharp tongue, he's most likely to just wince, take it, and hope they get bored. He didn't have the best education, meaning his reading abilities are quite limited, and is embarrassed by this when approaching the subject.
Of course his most notable abilities are his strength and fighting skill; Killian is incredibly muscular, so much so that he often has trouble finding clothes that fit. He has a simple and brutal combat style - no fancy kicks and backflips, he's got two fists and his forehead, and that's all he needs. To add more power to his punch, he acquired a pair of bronze knuckles.
He is an excellent sewer, though the needle looks ridiculously small in his huge hand.
He works as a bouncer in the Styx's club, "Iron Signet" or at "The Corona", wherever he's needed. He doesn't drink, scared of what it'll do to him, or that he might say something he'll regret.
Although he has a poor education, Killian is very knowledgeable about myths and legends, and there really isn't a story he'll ever get sick of, he loves hearing different people tell the same tale, and note the differences they made. He doesn't like the financial greed of the city, even their god is a monument to their currency, so he takes refuge in his own ancient culture whenever he feels overwhelmed. He has a very well worn story book from his childhood under his mattress in the Nightjar, a book very clearly written for children that's still his most prized possession. He'd die if anyone ever found out about it, this city and it's people doesn't understand, so he just keeps his mouth shut whenever the conversation turns to books or home.
Born in the Wandering Isle, Killian was raised on his parent's sheep and vegetable farm. He helped with nearly everything from a young age; shepherding, garden tending, wool shearing, feeding the donkey, seed planting and even doing night watches for wolves.
He was so interested in working with the earth that he didn't both much with school, and his mother didn't force him to go, glad of the help on the farm.
Killian was always a real mama's boy, and dotted on her. She was always there for him after bullies or scraps, and was, somewhat embarrassingly now, his best friend. She encouraged him to grow his hair long so she could sit and brush it, and although Killian always had his anxiety, he never felt judged by his mother, and could talk to her for days. She would soothe him when he was embarrassed by how big he was getting, and even called him 'Sionnach Beag', an old Kaelish saying meaning 'Little Fox', something he loved.
His father was another story.
The older Killian became, and the further he grew up and out, the more blatantly obvious it was that he was not the son of the man married to his mother. His face and his eyes were all wrong, no one on either side of the family grew naturally to be the height and build of Killian, even from working on farms, like they all did. He was only a child when he figured it out, and he didn't really even know what it symbolized, but he knew it meant something, and never brought it up. Killian grew up used to being the cause of tension at the dinner table, and going to his room to stay out of the way if his mother told him that his 'father' was 'in a mood'.
His 'father' hated talking to or about him, and small cruelties became bigger ones, until Killian was seriously injured by an explosion on the horse cart, the wood of which scarred the right side of his face.
His mother confronted her husband about it, and the fight escalated until it was physical. Years of bottled up anger and resentment, and the strong build of his body, made pulling his 'father' off his mother and knocking him out easy, but a little too easy.
For whatever reason it was, Killian had accidently killed a man and could not stay on the farm anymore.
He left for Kerch, his mother told the neighbors he was going to get his face properly seen to, and has lived here for just over a year now, taking a job in the first place he could.
Whenever he thinks about what he'd done, his whole body shakes, and he's been sick more than once at just the memory. He hated that man, but he never wanted to kill anyone. It's his secret to hold and he'd never share it.
On Mondays, he writes his mother a letter, and a fortnight later he gets her response. They never talk about what happened, and Killian never mentions the gang, but the both of them still manage to send bundles of paper to each other every single time (it helps the Killian's handwriting is huge due to how he holds a pencil, and his mother writes in big letters so he can definitely read it).
He secretly feeds to local stray cats at night and early mornings, and, even more secretly, has given them all names (Fiachra is his favorite, even though black cats are meant to be unlucky.)
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Free to use side characters;
Ambroos De Veen | Kerch | 52 | Aggressively heterosexual
A portly, quickly aging man who runs the rival gang The White Crows. Although once a powerful man in a powerful gang, his status has depleted over the years due to his complacency. Very old fashioned in his views of men and women, and the lives they should live. Unaware he once tried to seduce Zamir. He hates the Styx with a burning passion, a hatred that has only grown since they recently laid claim to the docks. He most values: tradition.
Lรกn | Shu Han | 16 | Gay
Exuberant, affable, and friendly, heโs constantly enveloped in warmth but is stubborn as an ox. While he may not be the most intellectual individual around, heโs got a big heart and a toothy smile that may be able to brighten just about anyoneโs day. His insane level of perseverance is his one of his many strengths. He arrived at The Styx with Fang. His real name is unknown. He most values: resilience. He is an Inferni.
Fang | Shu Han | 18 | Bisexual
Perpetually sullen, sharp-tongued, and quick-tempered, itโs easy to stamp him as an overbearing perfectionist who only cares about completing certain objectives in a timely manner. However, unbeknownst to most individuals, underneath his apathetic personality, he is greatly sweet, warm, loving, and protective. He arrived at The Styx with Lรกn. His real name is unknown. He most values: dependability.
Ian Galatea | Zemeni/Kerch | 19 | Heterosexual
Extremely tall, he towers over most individuals. Itโs notable that he doesnโt speak much (unless heโs openly provoking certain individuals) and is blunt, nonchalant, and clever. However, itโs known that heโs surprisingly soft-hearted and is quite loyal. Persistence and time are two necessary aspects of understanding this talented young man. He most values: experience.
Afia Furaha | Zemeni | 15 | Lesbian
As a tall, young woman, she looms over quite a few individuals. Shy, reserved, and timid, she isnโt one to speak very often and prefers to stay out of the spotlight as much as possible. She looks up to people often and oftentimes will wish to speak with them, though her nature holds her back from doing so. She doesnโt like seeing blood, so sheโs usually spotted running errands for The Styx. She most values: justice.
Maryse Boswel | Kerch | 19 | Doesn't like labels
Very well endowed and famous for it, Maryse is a popular barmaid in The Corona. Her friendly attitude and big innocent eyes make her an excellent spy, as few people take her seriously. She's more cunning than she looks, and very feminine, loves girly things. Not great in a fight but good for comfort in the aftermath. Has an on-and-off thing with Lifen, much to the chagrin of her boyfriend. She most values: laughter.
Razamond Dael | Fjerdan | 19 | Heterosexual
An aggressive and proud man with a chip on his shoulder. Razamond (or 'Razzy' if you want to annoy him) starts a lot of fights, and while he can finish them himself, it leaves the Styx is awkward positions. He's barred from most of the his own clubs. Has the typical Fjerdan view on Grisha and isn't afraid to be vocal about it. He came to Ketterdamn to make his fortune, but so far has only broken his nose. Not a fan of Lifen. Dating Maryse. He most values: power.
Jaecar Mertens | Kerch | 62 | Heterosexual
Definitely the oldest member of the Styx, he's a senior in a gang mainly populated by teenagers. He likes their drive and their optimism, but has also been around this city long enough to give decent advice to the fledgling gang. He isn't an official member, and still works in the docks on a fishing cruiser, but has an honorary Styx status. Jaecar isn't scared of anything, and is the first one to put these unruly teenagers in their place. He lost his wife to a gang war twenty years ago. He's a Durast Grisha. He most values: watchfulness.
Thijs Zarafi | Zemeni | 21 | Gay
The resident chef of the Nightjar, Thijs also helps fix broken guns. He and his father worked in this trade back in Novyi Zem and he's a very handy asset to the Styx. He wears very thick round glasses that blow up his eyes to the size of dinner plates, and has a gap between his two front teeth. He doesn't always know how to talk to people, and hates begin disturbed when he's working, but gets on surprisingly well with Zera. He most values: respect.
Lottie Renwick | Kaelish/Kerch | 14 | Lesbian
She doesn't have the signature ginger hair of The Wandering Isle, which really annoys her, but she does have the freckles. Lottie is a numbers runner for the Styx, and she has the nimble, swift body for the job. Lottie was born deaf in one ear and has a deformed left hand. She's very eager to prove herself to the gang and is constantly pestering older members for 'cooler' jobs. Doesn't have a family and idolizes some of the gang members in place of parents. She most values: adventure.
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Post by carmine. on Aug 6, 2017 8:37:35 GMT -5
!!!! oh my goodness. saph. this is masterpiece.
what have i stumbled into. and your characters are so beautiful.
my jaw literally dropped when i saw this. the coding. the characters. oh my goodness i have no words for how awesome this looks. lemme get my chars up asap
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Post by Deleted on Aug 6, 2017 11:10:24 GMT -5
ahh thank you!!!! it was really nothing ^^'
i'm glad you like it!! I'm excited to get going :3c
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Post by carmine. on Aug 6, 2017 11:17:04 GMT -5
npnp!!! honestly i'd never be able to code things like that in a million years.
me too!! super hyped to get this rolling cx hopefully my chars are okay omg
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Post by Deleted on Aug 6, 2017 13:32:15 GMT -5
sorry for vanishing!! it's my sister's 16th birthday and i'm going to be busy all evening ':3
gahhh i love your characters!! particularly the little spider! what a guy, what a pal. and i love Shu!! nothing better then a lady with a sword
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Post by Deleted on Aug 6, 2017 13:41:02 GMT -5
if you'd like, i'd be ready to jump right into rp ':3 do you still want to open with a fight between two gangs?
if we're doing a fight, i might have Roksana sit out, and then maybe Hart could go to her and get fixed up? She's way too go for yah street brawls
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Post by carmine. on Aug 6, 2017 22:10:40 GMT -5
nono that's okay!! i'm sorry for poofing too - it was p late and i had to get some sleep haha
aaahhh that sounds exciting!!! i hope that the birthday went well :D
omg ty i'm glad that you like them!!!
me too!! i'm totally hyped to jump into rping. hmmm are you down to open things up with a fight? cause i'd be totally down for chaos and hart going to roksana and get fixed up n stuff she too cool
would you like to start or shall i? 00:
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Post by Deleted on Aug 7, 2017 10:56:40 GMT -5
i can start!! hope these starters are any good to yah 00: ) โถย ย Lifenย โถ
The fog would be dense and cold tonight, thick white rivers running up cobblestone streets.
Things weren't so bad right now, but Lifen had been a citizen of Ketterdamn long enough now to know full well that when that big yellow harvest moon came out, the autumn fog was coming in off the True Sea. ย She helped set the pace the others were walking at, at the head of the pack with Hart, long legs keeping in time with his.ย
She felt good tonight. Not just because she'd ย been kept behind a desk for nearly two weeks now and was dying for the scrap, or because she knew their chances were good, but because it'd been a wine tasting night at The Corona. She was smart enough not to get carried away on the drink on a tense night like tonight, but she still had a pleasant, warm buzz. At one hip, her satchel knocked against her faintly, though she'd shortened the straps a long time ago to stop the bag swinging madly, and anything inside from going off before she wanted it to. ย Tonight she had flash bombs and pretty little grenades the colour of grapes that could put a sizable dent in any stone pavement. At her other hip, Rook was tied up on her belt loop. ย Her trusted black whip hadn't been seeing much action these days, but it's weight for a reassuring one.ย
She wasn't an idiot. ย She knew her role wasn't to get too immersed in the fight in the same way she knew not to drink too much before she left. Just enough, just enough. She was good at the balancing act. Hadn't always been, but since she got to Kerch, she'd improved dramatically. The back streets of Ketterdamn were all but deserted, as if all the citizens unfortunate enough to live in the rundown areas had developed a sixth sense, the kind that told them to go home earlier tonight and lock the shutters. The kind that told them long before gunfire was heard, that there would be trouble.
Trouble'd been brewing for weeks now. Ever since The Styx got their hands on the Northern Docks, ย the threat of violence had hung on the horizon, in the same way the fog was now. Lifen hoped for the fog to move a bit faster; between the specialist and the actor, the fog was good news. Another tool they could use to their advantage. Plus, she thought a little smugly under the confidence of red wine, any fog wouldn't last too long once she started the flash bombs going. ย She'd been out here today, giving the area a sweep, even though she knew like the back of her hand by now, seeing as how many times she'd been sent there on messages leading up to the actual purchase. ย Open space, wooden docks, quietly moored ships. Perfect place for a good ol fashion showdown.ย
"Don't lag." She turned her head over her shoulder to speak to those behind her, dark hair tied in a coil around her head, "We don't want to be late."
โฆย Zamirย โฆ All he wanted was to sit down. ย
He'd been up on his feet since half five this morning, before the bloody sun even bothered to show it's miserable face, helping at the circus (mandatory). Since then, he'd done three shows; the Matinee, the Evening Show, and the Midnight Run. Zamir could smell the circus off himself, and he hated it, hated the sweat, and the salted butter, and the artificial sweetness, and the sheer heat of human bodies and candle light, and most of all, the dried in, now cold, sweat on his back and face.
He was burning something in his mouth to help battle the overwhelming scents. Zamir didn't smoke often, he needed to stay in good shape after all and he was far too vain to risk the effects of long term smoking, but the smell of cloves and thick bluish smoke coming out of the roll of paper in his mouth helped him resist the urge to kill everyone he was currently walking with.ย
He was near the middle of the group, water flash at his side and an old double barreled shot gun on his back. He was no sniper, that was Zera's job, but the infamous silhouette of a gun was a nice thing to have when you knew you were walking into a gunfight. Much nicer than a bottle of water. It was a pretty crisp evening, the empty streets would be slightly icy tomorrow. Summer was definitely over, thank the Saints, so work would calm down a little. Whenever the circus was at his slowest, he was still working, either a pretty face at The Corona or a helpful hand at The Signet, wherever Hart wanted him, doing his best to entice customers in and giving them what they payed for. It was sleazy work at times, but it was a damn shot better than a good-for-nothing circus. ย There were traces of glitter shining in the light of his cigarette on his face, which looked raw and red from where he'd scrubbed the makeup off, and tiny flakes of fake gold that he'd missed with the brush falling out of his hair and onto his shoulders . He was also glad to be out of that ridiculous costume and into warm, regular clothes. It was hard to be taken seriously when you were done up like a tasteless concubine.
The crowds hadn't exactly been easy today either. The earlier shows were full of kids, which meant he had to be full energy, and the later one had more than a handful of drunk, loud men who got their kicks from heckling, yelling obscenities until they were escorted out. The circus didn't have the security that the clubs did, so Hart was damn lucky Zamir hadn't burnt it down yet. Someone at the front told them all to walk faster, and Zamir rolled his mismatched eyes, muttering lowly, "Tell me to hurry up again and we'll-" the end of his sentence lost to his clenched teeth, holding his smoke in his mouth. โฉย Killianย โฉ He caught glimpse of boats bobbing up and down on the water between alley way openings and stray empty doorframes. ย Some of them had lights lit, the boat itself so dark that the lights appeared to be floating on the water of their own accord. It sent a chill down his spine - Psychopomps. Deceased spirit escorts.ย
Death was in the air, but what was new?
It was fair enough to say that Killian wasn't a fan of Ketterdamn. He didn't like the lack of space, or the polluted air, or the mean, sharp people. He'd been in plenty of fights in his own time, but since he arrived in this city about a year ago, the number he'd been in had all but doubled. ย There was something wrong with this place, something bad in the soil. Or the lack of it. He hadn't seen grass since he'd gotten here, something that made his big heart pang every now and again. Killian kept this observation to himself, as he did with all his observations.
As per usual, he was at the back of the group, taking up the rear. Few people bothered to try and strike from behind when there was a human wall in their way. Someone further up was smoking a heavily scented something, ย and the sea breeze was blowing it up and back, out of everyone's way but his. Annoyed, but saying nothing about it, he kept moving out of the way of the wind ย to avoid getting a lungful of the stuff. The group passed under a stone arch connecting two buildings and he ducked slightly, turning his shoulders to be parallel with the thinning walls. There was no need now to do this, really, the street was big enough, but it had become a habit after more than one humiliating destruction of a tiny door frame.ย
Everyone in this place was greedy for everything; Money, land, pleasure. His face heated up at the thought of the last one, there had been no 'pleasure houses' in The Wandering Isle. Or, at least, none he knew of. ย Greediness for land, he understood, or he thought he did, before he came here. Back home, who had the biggest farm, and who was owed what stretch of forest was very important, and often the subject of most town hall meetings, but in the end, most people went home to a detached farm house with even a small garden ย Here, any space was worth contesting, space Killian wouldn't even have noticed. The doorframes and corridors were so small because everything square inch of space around them had been taken up by something else.ย
The Nightjar in particular could be a nightmare, the flimsy plywood 'walls' between dorms didn't always reach the ceiling, ย meaning anything his neighbours got up to, Killian could hear it all. Like, everything. And the other side of the sword was that they could hear anything he was getting up not (which wasn't much admittedly), but it did mean that he couldn't let the candle burn out over night while he slept like he used to.ย
The thought of returning to the dark, cramped space he now called home was almost enough to cry over, and the thought of returning to it after a fight was even worse. He hated fighting. Still, Hart had employed him because he was big, and he wasn't about to test his place here. He did as he was told, and he kept his thoughts to himself.ย |
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Post by carmine. on Aug 8, 2017 12:42:43 GMT -5
( sounds great! i already like maryse haha by the way i'm super sorry but i'll most likely be absent for three or so days after this because of a group trip so i may only be able to chat if i'm able to sneak on my phone at night without fainting we have to hike for 4hours. someone save all of us we're not used to hiking for that long also i'm sorry for hart's shorter replies; he's the last one i write and it's so late by the time i start his that i'm p much dead x(( ) Rafael Edkaird
The Corona was far from what heโd been used to. Different for certain from the days when heโd eaten his meals out of a silver bowl, something that he, in his mind, had never regarded as something prestigious. It was simply an object, something that could be destroyed in a matter of minutes with a molten pool of sizzling ember. Heโd be woken by the servants before the sun rose, brushed and groomed like a kitty pet (a very sleepy and half-grumpy kitty pet) until he was considered presentable to the many guests and teachers who would visit the following hours.
Straighten your shoulders, balance the book, eat with the right utensils, keep your posture graceful. Rafael had a suspicion that itโd been worse for him specifically because his features possessed something feminine as did his physique, something that his father regarded with a critical and scornful eye. Perhaps youโll do better in a corset, their second eldest brother had said when theyโd been at the ripe age of thirteen. Heโd always been something of aโฆ well, a jerk, to be put mildly. It was why heโd favoured his other siblings, and theyโd treated him fairly well. Heโd often been dragged off to be โmade overโ by his older and younger sisters, though, as a result of their close companionship. Thatโd been fun.
Parties in their home had flowed with yellow music and huge, vibrant dresses of all kind, and all heโd been able to hear against the smooth, polished floor had been the joyous clicks and clacks of heels from the prancing, colourful silhouettes before his very own eyes.
Socialize, their father had commanded, but heโd pretended not to hear and sat on one of the velvet chairs with his chin propped against his thin and pale hand, his eyebrows lazily raised in boredom. Youโre surely to be happy, heโd heard often. Yes, he should have been happy. Keyword: should. But for some reason he couldnโt fathom, he wasnโt. Why, he could not understand โ he had a family, a place to sleep, a roof over his head, a surplus of food, and a warm bath to look forward to. Yet there he usually sat sullenly, eyeing the others with a blank eye.
The colors and the music were both certainly enchanting โ he did appreciate every little detail of every corner and the lively atmosphere that others seemed to sink into as if they were intoxicated, but this was, heโd thought to himself at the time, a life that he did not desire. It was so restricted. The walls around his home were just like the unspoken transparent rules that locked him in a small universe that did not forgive outsiders. The world itself was like a house that never let anyone in, but once it did, it never let them go back out. On the surface, they flourished. Internally, they perished. Political ties and entangled relationships and deals were inescapable, and it was a fate that had been pushed on his shoulders the moment his father had suddenly announced his arranged marriage. What an indulgent facade it all was. โTheyโ seethed at each other yet only became one when they regarded the โcommon folkโ as they put it. The paupers and the poor.
Difference, heโd come to realise, was far from what heโd been imagining to be before heโd seen The Corona. It was ruggedly charming with a loudness to it that made his ears and head ring at times, but he paid no attention to it. There was an untamed atmosphere to it and something was unruly yet fashioned about just how wild and free it was. Freedom. Something heโd envied about the doves who flew over their garden, oblivious to the tangled society underneath its little wings.
The spider couldnโt help but grin a little sheepishly and apologetically when the drunk people bumbled away after Zamirโs minuscule outburst about the fire, looking confused at why theyโd ever even stood in the first place. โNice thinking,โ he said as he sat on the seat as well, sinking into the velvet with a small appreciative sigh. He wasnโt going to lie, he wasnโt in the greatest shape at the moment (his side still felt as if stones had been rubbed into his skin, which wasnโt all that wrong), and his legs had admittedly been just a little tired from all the running and climbing and jumping. At least now, he was sitting down next to the actor with a drink in his hand. He did dream of moving away and living somewhere tranquil โ somewhere open with lots of trees and maybe even near a lake. Tipping his head to the side with his glass raised in the air as well with one leg crossed over the other, the corner of his lips tugged upwards just the slightest bit. โI couldnโt have said it any better.โ
God, the atmosphere and the wine felt good. It wasnโt the taste that mattered (heโd hated it when heโd still been living beneath the oppressing rule of his father) but the wholeโฆ thing. The accomplishment of a mission well done, the realisation that no one had been killed and that they were all alive. Some a little bruised, but still, alive. For some reason, the alcohol seemed to clear his vision better than when he hadnโt touched it before. Resting the back of his head against the top of the couch, the spider let a small laugh escape his lips. โWell, letโs just make sure not to grow up to be that way, hm?โ
It was then the music started (ah, the piano. The instrument that had gotten him the scar across his back in the first place, though he did still love the instrument and its lovely sound), and with his head still resting against the top of the plush couch, Rafael closed his eyes. He wasnโt going to deny that he was feeling tired, but he wasnโt going to let that get in the way, either. โIโd ask โ... Iโd ask someone to dance, but Iโm dead tired. My feet feel like theyโre about to fall off. What a waste of a good night,โ he sighed while looking at the high ceiling, his lips curving subtly. His gaze reflected the warm glowing lights of The Corona. โSitting down and taking a drink while taking some time isnโt all that bad, though. And I agree with you there.โ Turning his head around (without lifting himself up because he was a little bit lazy for that), he watched Killian with gentle amusement. โYouโre not going to dance, either?โ
Zera Zeddrid
"You'd toss us over, Zera? In favour of a nap? I thought Ravkans were meant to be good drinkers. I am hurt, hurt and offended and I almost caught fire tonight.โ Zera almost rolled her eyes. Almost. But, she had to admit that there was some sort of amusement that flashed past her head at her second-in-commandโs response, and she nonchalantly rested her hand on her hip. โNaps are important for me, Lifen,โ she simply stated as she made her way through, following the gang in The Corona. โIโm sure youโve seen what happens to those who disturb me from them.โ
What? Anyone who disturbed naps were evil, and she had the right toโฆ well, never mind. "As for the fire... It hasn't been once or twice that you've almost burnt yourself or Hart or even myself, now, has it?"
The noise was demanding. Not many things bothered Zera (she was barely fazed by anything โ at least, she remained composed and stoic during most situations), and noise wasnโt one of them. It was, however, the amount of people gathered together that touched her nerves just a little, though she would never outwardly admit it. No one knew when anyone was holding a gun or a knife โ for heavenโs sake there could be a person standing next to you and you wouldnโt see it coming. It was specifically why she preferred staying behind something or standing at a slightly higher level than a crowd โ because she could see everything. Perhaps it was the reason for why she was not too fond of standing too close to several individuals all at once.
The overflowing human current was busy as always, washing over The Corona and erasing any specks of its floor, and she could barely see which outline of a silhouette belonged to which figure or face. Rubbing her hand over her face and shaking her head to the side, Zera briskly (as nonchalantly as possible) made her way to the highest area she could manage to find herself in, but only after she caught Shu heading back out. โYouโre leaving so soon?โ She followed Shu's gaze, which landed on her barefoot. โRight. You donโt need someone to take you back toโฆ?โ
Shuโs lips seemed to curve at this as she raised her hand before she left as a small signal of farewell. โThatโs all right, Zera. Thank you. If I donโt return, it most likely means Iโve passed out.โ
There was something else she spotted as she watched the swords woman leave, and she leaned her arms against the desk as she looked down to see Lifen sweeping through the customers and briefly interact with Maryse. โHmm,โ she only hummed thoughtfully as she took another drink before sweeping her gaze over to another familiar individual: Roksana.
Following the short femaleโs gaze, she found herself staring at Hart, who seemed to move effortlessly through the crowd as if he were a shark in the midst of a large school of fish. The crowd, no matter what they had been doing previously (ugh, she didnโt even want to think about what some of them were up to in all the hectic franticness of the night), seemed to vaporise the moment Vikhrov took a step forward. Over his face, a professional mask lay, and she saw him leaning down a little to listen to whatever a customer had to say before responding with a smile she'd never seen him wear in front of herself or Lifen or any of those who stuck with him a little closer for that matter. The man knew how to be sweet when he wanted to be, duplicitous dastard. His attention shifted from the customer to a staff member who approached him, and she saw him speak with an expression of calm reassurance before swivelling around, excusing himself with an apologetic arch of his eyebrows.
โIโll be taking this,โ she said as she deftly picked up a filled glass that looked untouched from the chaos occurring all around herself. Taking a swing from the glass, she allowed her shoulders to relax and eye the rest of the lively dancing and prancing of the people and staff as they busily moved around. What a night it was.
Shu Hart Vikhrov
The burn only seemed to get worse and worse, though he grit his teeth and pleasantly tipped his head to the side when a few individuals approached him. Oh, that was all fine. He'd dealt with far worse before, and this barely could be considered as an injury; it was more like a little scratch by this point in time. Itโd take a while for him to be completely fazed over a wound.
A few seconds before, heโd momentarily sighted Roksana whoโd been sitting on a seat too high for her with a nearly empty glass sitting in her hand. Sheโd disappeared after that, like a tough bird vanishing in the midst of branches and leaves, though he didnโt have to see where she had trailed off to because he already understood where sheโd gone. The short and broad girl was a bit of a mystery for him, though all he could grasp from her persona was the fact that there was an air of defiance to her, and that she was rather no-nonsense. Something about her seemedโฆ was it wrong if he said she seemed constantly tired? In that perspective, she reminded him of Zera โ only the two possessed very, very different vibes and personality characteristics from each other. They were all fighters, all the people in The Styx in their own ways.
โYouโve come such a long way, I see,โ he said, half-paying attention to the younger, doe-eyed girl in front of himself and trying to half-ignore the thin, narrow-eyed, older woman standing next to her. If looks could kill, he was certain she wouldโve murdered him for talking with who he could only assume to be her granddaughter or family of some sort. What a place to visit at this hour. โI hope that The Corona may live up to your expectation, love.โ A few others surged forward, and he stopped, listening to each of their little stories or their disappointments or surprises.
Oh, you should listen to what Henry did the other day โ
โYes, Iโve heard. That mustโve been tough to deal withโโ
Have you heard of โ
โThe sudden movement of The Red Vipersโโ
Do you happen to know of โ
Truthfully, while most individuals seemed to jump to the conclusion that he disliked conversing with others from all across the globe, he did. It was strange and even he admitted that it didnโt fit in with his persona as a whole, but it was something that he didnโt mind doing, even if he was a little weary from the dayโs toil. The trait had existed even back then when heโd been involved with the Rivera. Thinking about that group made him almost drop his smile, though he simply remained as he was before, taking the small, surging crowds of people with deft ease and politeness.
โApologies,โ he finally said when he managed to enter the room, letting his orbs quickly eye the round rug and the old lampshade that hung above Roksana. โHave you waited for long?โ
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Post by Deleted on Aug 9, 2017 8:52:31 GMT -5
โถ Lifen โถ
She stuffed her hands in her pockets, thought about it, and then placed her right hand on her satchel instead. It was cold, but she'd rather have numb fingers then be caught with her guard down. Lifen's breath was making little white clouds, and she gave a tiny smile at this, it was a small childish pleasure, and a strange comfort, to see the world carried on the way it should, regardless of any unforeseeable violence in the not-so-distant future. When the spider slipped in out of nowhere, she turned to face the noise of feet on cobblestone. The light of the moon was behind her then, throwing her face and body into silhouette, sharp grey eyes glinting at see who had snuck up beside them. She relaxed upon hearing Rafael's voice, turning slowly back to face the road before her, never breaking stride. Lifen grinned properly when Hart spoke, giving a little hmph of amusement. Banter was good before a brawl, it kept up team spirit, which was her second favourite kind of spirit. The docks drew closer until the thin road opened up completely, falling away to reveal the stone clearing. There was the tiny dock lighthouse, which had been conveniently extinguished tonight. Lighthouse keepers didn't earn a lot of money for the long hours they did, so it was never too hard to find one who was willing to be paid twice their amount for none of their hours. The fog was rolling in thick and fast now, she could feel it damp against her suit and any exposed skin. The water of the True Sea was pitch black, and if it weren't for the light way it moved, she would've written it off a tar. It was a lot chillier closer to the Sea, the wind was slightly stronger too, but it was quiet enough for her to hear the dark waves lapping against the stone walls. The silence was also disturbed by her own light movements, the click of the buckles on her satchel as she opened her bag up. There was no point in getting anything out now, but she didn't want to be left fumbling for a bomb when the gunshots started. It was a damn shot darker out here, true, it was their fault for getting rid of the lighthouse, but even the meager lights coming from shut up houses in the winding streets on the way here had been a slight comfort. She wasn't overly comfortable in the dark, though from her cool posture and expression, it was near impossible to tell right now. Hey, that's what she made flash bombs for, right? Lifen found herself simultaneously wishing she'd had more and less to drink, as the last of the warm buzz wore off and she was left borderline sober (never a good place to be.) There were tiny creaks heard of the wood boats rocking back and forth, pulling on the ropes that kept them tied at their stations, and she could hear the people around her breathing, but not much else. In the distance she could hear one of the church towers go; one... two.... three bells. And a quarter. "They're late." She observed, clicking her tongue against her teeth, "Or are we too eager? Golly gosh, how embarrassing." She sighed in false maudlin, placing one hand against her cheek and shaking her head ruefully. This wasn't meant to be a fight. On paper, paper not unlike the kind she used to deliver messages when she was on lower rungs, before being entrusted with the role of verbal messages, it was a diplomatic meeting between gangs. A 'man-to-man' conversation between leaders of the common people of Ketterdamn. Lifen wasn't an expert of 'man-to-man' conversations, but she was pretty sure they happened indoors, during daylight hours, and not surrounded by your own troops. Besides diplomatic might as well be Kerch for a street brawl but at night instead, so we don't disturb our own businesses. It was one of the first things she learnt when she joined The Styx, and it was one of her favourite things too. Then, out of the gloom, a group appeared, looking fro the distance like one black mass of limps. They must've looked the same, except we're punctual. Making your opponent wait it out was the oldest trick in the book, but it didn't work if you were destined to lose anyway.
โฆ Zamir โฆ Saints above, Rafael was quiet when he wanted to be. Zamir mostly knew the slightly younger man as not quiet because he didn't want to be, so hearing (or not hearing) him slip out of the shadows was startling. Although the actor could complain from dawn till dusk about constant chatter, it was nice to hear him speak. All his life, Zamir had been surrounded by people made hard by the circumstances of birth, and it showed when they spoke. Rafael still had a gentle way of looking at the world, and it was healing to be around. He wasn't about to tell him any of that, but whatever. "Haven't been killed yet, petal." Zamir blew a long stream of bluish smoke at the spider, "That's an important adverb." Keeping up with the pace of the group, he made his way over from one side to towards the middle, walking alongside Rafael. He hated his own job, but he didn't envy the spider his. That was way too much pressure and danger for Zamir, thank you very much. He could hold his own in an act, and wasn't even a bad fighter, but he always liked to know there were others with him, stationed not too far away. The spider worked solo a lot. Often where it was very dark, and on a night like this, very cold. Zamir hugged his coat closer to his body, relishing in the heat from his jumper and coat, and spoke casually, as if asking what Rafael thought of the fog, "Any trouble?" From his tone and volume, a stranger wouldn't have been able to tell if Zamir really cared or if he was just sick of walking in silence, but the fact he removed his cigarette and held it between two long fingers so he could speak clearly, even just for a few seconds, was enough to tell anyone who knew him that he did care. Or rather, he cared about the safety of a certain nimble little guy. Or, whatever. He was happy enough to let people think he was worried about the job tonight. He didn't want Lifen on his tail if she thought he was slacking, and he really didn't want Hart keeping an eye on him if the leader suspected he wasn't putting his all into the fight. As they pulled up to the dock, he slowed his own pace until he came to a stop. The big guy at the back, Killian, didn't stop quick enough and bumped him. Zamir turned his head at an alarming angle to meet the muscle's eyes (what did his mother feed him as a kid? Magic beans?) and rounded on him, "Watch it." The red haired man didn't say anything, but dipped his head a little and took a step back. He'd been in the gang just as long as Zamir had, but he doubted if they'd ever even had a conversation. Looks like all his energy went to his arms and skipped whatever it took to make him talk. The docks were as abandoned as the rest of the Barrell tonight, as if all of Ketterdamn had packed their bags and left. He suppressed an involuntary shiver, but still muttered, "This place is so much creepier at night." Why didn't showdowns ever happen somewhere nice? No, scratch that, why didn't they ever happened somewhere well lit? If all the fights in this city happened in the nice places, the every street would look like a hole, and that would be too damn depressing to live with. Zamir rolled his shoulders, feeling the gun at his back lean more towards his arms, and put his cigarette back in his mouth. He could hear the water lapping at the rocks, and he could almost feel the now dense fog making puddles in between the cracks of the stone slabs. His own little water supply at his side suddenly felt very heavy, and he reached down at his side and clicked the lid open, just in case. Ambroos De VeenWhen The Styx first appeared, Ambroos had not been worried. Little gangs like that were a dime-a-dozen, and when he heard how old their leader was, he laughed himself to sleep and thought no more of it in the morning. When The Iron Signet opened up on the foundations of an old warehouse, he didn't even send some men over to give it a good look around. Be closed in a week, he'd told his woman at the time, Pitiful little thing like that. When an abandoned pleasure house on Trossachs Lane had been bought up and stripped of it's faded, tacky decorations (Used to be called 'Cloud Nine', had an angel theme), and turned into The Corona, he didn't even know until almost a week after it opened. When a Shu Han girl appeared at their doors, introduced herself as the second in command of The Styx and said she had a written message from her superior, who may be interested in collaborating with The White Crows, she'd been jeered away without being so much as let in over the threshold.
When she came back that night with a bag full of bombs and six other gang members, when she nailed a new letter signed by a man named H. Vikhrov, stating that he 'formally withdrew his earlier interest', to what remained of their front door, Ambroos decided that enough was enough. These kids had had their fun, and it was time to remind them about the real big runners.
However, it was a little more complicated than that now. The old municipal hospital, which seemed to be their base, his sources told him, was neatly situated in a derestriction that The White Gulls did not control, but was slowly being bought up by The Styx.
They bought up old shops that had been empty forever in the middle of the Barrel, rumor was that they were haunted, destroyed them, and raised up a circus of all things.
He began to see their tattoo on wrists everywhere.
He heard the name 'Vikhrov' on the streets, as well as 'Nightingale' and 'Magpie', and gunshots and the crack of a whip.
He heard they'd named their circus 'Aeonian', as in, everlasting.
He too heard rumors about Vikhrov's eye. In one disturbing rumor, undoubtedly false but still potent, he'd heard that he'd traded his eye with the Devil, for something powerful.
Ambroos truly knew this gang was bigger than initially suspected when they managed to wrangle the pavilion in the University District, something he wouldn't have dared, not sober. Gangs weren't as accepted in the nicer areas as they were in the Barrel, but The Styx didn't seem to care.
He'd had tiny revenges of course, their own busts ruined and their own businesses tried by his, all in the name of vengeance, not necessarily just for attacking their base, but for even bothering to form in the first place. Still, time and time again, no matter how often they hit the little buggers, they just. Kept. Coming. Back. And they didn't seem to be losing any money either. In fact, they were just getting bigger and bigger.
Purchasing The Docks, had been the final straw.
Ambroos had had his unremarkable eyes on those docks since he first joined the White Crows, when he was still little more than a boy, and they'd been taken from right under him. Now, things were personal. When things got personal in the Barrel, they got messy.
He'd sent his own envoy to The 'Nightjar' two days ago. At first, the thought of mirroring his first interactions with this blasted gang was too painful, but then he embraced it. Good. Let them notice. He would be the bigger man. He would be the smarter man. Everything to do with the message was a deliberate action. Same colour of paper, same time of day. Hell, he'd even found some Shu Han kid to deliver it, a boy about 12 years old, happy to make the Kurge. He didn't even speak much Kerch, just a gormless immigrant kid who'd do anything for the money. Hopefully that got under the Magpie's skin.
Amroos had been fairly tempted to gouge out one of the kid's eyes too.
The letter had been very polite, even personal. There was a healthy use of 'me' and 'we', and 'us'. The true meaning was as clear as day however; Come to the Docks in two days time, and prove you've earned them.
And they were here.
He let them wait a bit, let them sweat it out in the fog. One of his men, Kameron, wasn't back yet from his little scouting mission, so they hadn't been able to cut them off, hadn't been able to trap the in the streets like he'd wanted to. When they got back, Kameron would have hell to pay. As for now, he just nodded to his men and began to walk across the docks to meet The Styx. He counted 7; A huge man at the back he recognized from outside some of their clubs, a woman with a sword, a Suli boy who was smoking something that stank of cloves, the pretty little thing that was meant to be a spider, a young woman with a lot of guns whom he mistook for a boy, The Magpie, and of course, The Nightingale.
Ambroos plastered a thick grin on his face, which was getting more lined by the day, "Vikhrov! So glad you could make it. Did you get my message alright?"
it's cool!! dont sweat it!! i invented a rival leader ':3 hope thats ok, figured hart was going to need someone to talk to!) |
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Post by carmine. on Aug 10, 2017 8:35:07 GMT -5
( tyyy!!! /gasps/ saph how could you
in all seriousness tho thatโs wonderful ty for creating the rival leader cx honestly everythingโs totally okay with me. if youโd like to throw in some things or add some crazy stuff later on (or now or just whenever) go for it!!!! iโm literally open for any ideas/just really everything
i also changed shuโs char a bit and edited her form again cause when iโd finished making her form initially i was a little uncertain if that was how i wanted to shape her personality 00: i hope thatโs okay! )
~~~
Rafael Edkaird
It would be a lie if Rafael said that he didnโt like to startle some individuals with his โtalentsโ whenever a small chance came to light, particularly to those he knew who didnโt take too much offence at being snuck up on. There was something about the way they responded โ the friendlier ones, he meant โ whose expression would first reflect a sense of bewilderment, then shift to one of recognition and even slight amusement that made it almost a minuscule addiction of his. Their little sword fighter, he understood, was one of those people who took little offence, despite her external demeanour. Perhaps it was one of the reasons for why he liked popping up next to the sleek fighter, specifically because he was aware that, one, she didnโt seem to mind to much after the initial bemusement, and two, he knew that she wouldnโt draw her sword at him for it.
Now, Zera and Hart on the other hand were two completely different stories. Heck, a lot of people were, and he wasnโt eager to let several bullets carve through his head any time soon, thank you very much. Besides, it had become more difficult for Rafael to make himself noticed than to emerge with a distinct footstep of his own to let others know that he was here in their midst as well, so he usually ended up sneaking up on them anyway without even realising it himself.
In that regard, someone had once told him that he'd almost become parallel to a mirage โ a thin illusion that remained afloat on air, silent, hushed, and soundless. Once, after a hard, gruelling day and a good surprise, Zera had clucked her tongue and muttered a dark โhalf-witted catโ underneath her breath at him. When he'd laughed, ignoring the wrong end of a barrel that was pointed at him, winked at her, and then proceeded to tell her that he'd take her words as a compliment, heโd had a book chucked in his direction. In any case, he was aware that he needed to be a little more careful, but it was as if some entity had whisked away any sound from his feet the moment heโd touched the true Ketterdamn streets.
Hauled out of his reverie by the stream of bluish smoke that was blown in his direction, and even more so at Zamirโs words, Rafaelโs lips curled as he quirked an eyebrow.
โOf course. Youโll have to forgive me,โ he answered as he gently brushed his own pale locks away from his bright eyes, which seemed to practically glow from the slants of light. His dark and amused amber eyes flickered over to briefly meet those of Zamirโs when he noticed that the actor had made his way over to his side. โThe adverb happened to slip past me at the time I said them. Itโs good to see that you havenโt killed each other yet.โ Itโs good to see that youโre not dead.
He was aware that he would be telling another lie if he said that he didn't feel even the faintest sense of worry for the actor, especially after heโd taken notice of the extravagant crowds today and the reactions theyโd offered. Hell, had he been placed in the middle of all that, he was certain that he would've been long gone from all the weariness. Sure, keeping a close crowd of individuals entertained from time to time wasnโt something Rafael avoided, but a static human mob who were swept away by the false and deceptive sweetness of the long, strenuous acts and stubbornly demanded for more one after another? No thank you. He much preferred the chance to slip away and oversee all of their surroundings, because he knew where they were, and because if there was to be an ambush of some sort, heโd be one of the first individuals to notice it. Knocking any threats down before they even dared to challenge Hartsโ wellbeing was his job. And, well, preventing them from even approaching Zamir at all, too, but as if he was going to admit that anytime soon.
Speaking of Zamir, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the actor hug his coat closer to himself. It was cold โ the fact that he was wearing nothing but a simple, thin pair of black gloves, shirt, pants, and scarf made him exposed to the thick and cold, rolling fog. Gingerly pulling up his scarf to cover the tip of his nose, which was now a faint shade of pink from the low temperature, he allowed the ends of his lips to tug upwards at the inquiry.
โThis,โ he said as he, with melodramatic flourish, gestured at the heavy and chilly white blanket that surrounded them. โThis isnโt the problem for me, and I don't think itโll be the main obstacle weโll all face, either.โ Okay, maybe there was a bit of a lie in there, though, well, they were still going to get themselves in this quarrel no matter what, so they might as well go in with a good attitude. Anyway, no one knew this area better than they did, too, so he was certain that theyโd be all right. โI did run into a little something along the way here, though,โ he said with his gaze and curve of his lips lingering on the actor before turning back to the clearing. โBut thatโs been taken care of.โ
Heโd even say Kameron had looked much more placid than his usual angry self now that he was unconscious and gently propped against a wall with Rafelโs own, worn gray coat placed over his stomach. Heโd get a new coat for himself later โ itโd been one heโd had for too many years, anyway. His loyalty remained tight to the Styx and Hart, but the last time heโd checked, there hadnโt been a rule about never harbouring some degree of sympathy. There was no doubt Ambroos would make Kameron pay when he returned, and in a way, it was because Rafael had knocked him out with his own hands. At least the man would pay hell to his boss without catching a cold.
Then, while lowering his voice just a little so that the others wouldnโt hear, he spoke. โAll that aside, you should go and get some rest once we head back, Zamir.โ Translation: Hey, Iโm sort of worried about you โ are you going to be okay?
Zera Zeddrid
Ketterdamn was the last place for a diplomatic solution to take place. Peaceful conversations were not and option, and that had always seemed to be a law in this forsaken country. At least, for Zera, in these crooked streets where thick odours of clam and salt permeated through the air, things had always seemed like that. She was well aware of that rule aside from knowing the efficient ways of punching holes into people after turning the wrong ends of her barrels against them. The pitch black sea, she saw, was thick and dark like rotten stew, and the unnervingly pitiful lights of the dark houses were irking to some extent. It made Zera wary โ and Saints, Rafael was lucky she hadnโt shot him a million times by now the moment sheโd seen him. Perhaps sheโd spell the words โthis was my mistake, please forgive meโ across his chest with her guns just to teach him a lesson to reveal his presence without sneaking up on them like a stray cat. Then again, she imagined that Hart wouldnโt be too happy about losing one efficient and discreet chess piece to his little game before she could even finish spelling the word โthis,โ so she resisted the urge to pull the trigger, and instead opted to gently rest the tips of her numb fingers on one of her sleek pistols. That opportunity could come next time.
โHalf-witted, stupid cat,โ she muttered underneath her breath with her Ravkan accent thick on her tongue (yes, sheโd added the word โstupidโ to the familiar insult, because she simply could and felt that it was somehow necessary), though she doubted that the little spider had heard her. After all, he seemed to be engaged in a conversation with Zamir, and she caught the pleasant surprise in his eyes when the actor decided to move next to where he walked. After letting her eyes linger on them for a little while longer, because she was just a tad bit surprised that Zamir had removed his cigarette at a question (and because to some degree she felt a twinge of amusement when she spotted Rafaelโs melodramatic gesture at the fog), she turned her head to the front so that she could only hear their footsteps and trails of what they said. Her remaining free hand trailed over the holster that was hooked to her waist, where another silver pistol lay waiting.
โThis is nothing for me,โ she heard Rafael say lightheartedly. Her cold eyes, which were just as chilly as the thick fog that surrounded them, looked down to catch a glimpse of the smooth holsters against her hips, as well as the belt across her chest that kept a much, larger and longer gun pressed to her back. It was easy for the spider to say, but she had a suspicion that even the usual jocose Rafael felt a small sense of unease.
Even if her eyes were the sharpest in the entire span of Kerch, she would have a difficult time locking onto targets that would be hiding and shooting at the time through this damn fog. After all, they wouldnโt be waving their hands around, hollering โhey, Iโm over here,โ now, would they? That would save an awful amount of time, really, and Zera soon found herself wishing that that would be the case. But the empty vessels tended to make the loudest sound, and in parallel, she was certain that the White Crows would stubbornly persist at an egregiously horrible fight of some sort before finally giving in.
Zera scowled as she clucked her tongue. Why did the dogs โ excuse her, birds โ with the loudest shrieks have to be the most stubborn and the most afraid?
All the sniper wanted to do was sit down on the edge of a high, wasted shop, grab a cigarette, and let her legs dangle over the edge as she watched the rest of the night swallow all of Ketterdamn.
โWatch it,โ she heard Zamir snap the words, and watched silently, almost impassively, as the massively tall, red-haired man ducked his head and took a step back. She wasnโt one to step into anyoneโs situation, nor comfort an individual, either. She was aware that her words tended to be awkward at best and cruel at worst, so she never bothered โ and besides, most individuals in the Styx by this point seemed to be familiar with her personality, which made it all the more easier for them to avoid her when she strolled down the barโs corridors. But of course, she thought as she watched Rafael fell back a little so that he was aligned with where Killian stood, the little spider was a little different from herself. She eyed him with mild curiosity as he gently nudged the giant with a small smile, then leaned over and said something that she could not make out. Was there anyone the little rascal didnโt try to get along with? Heโd even approached her a numerous amount of times, even when after all the books sheโd chucked at him.
โThis place is always creepy, day and night and throughout all four seasons,โ she spoke up without looking back at the end of the walking group. โEven the finest flowers wouldnโt make this city look less dreary.โ
Hart Vikhrov
Aside from the puffs of white that escaped his lips from the weather and his keen green eye, Hart was a complete silhouette against the night and the thin road until it fell away entirely, leading them to a very familiar place indeed. It was a prized possession, really โ something that belonged to them, and them only. So did everything theyโd managed to obtain at the pavilion in the University District. Every little scrape The Styx had come to own was theirs. Surely The White Crows understood this easy, transparent logic.
Slowing his pace until he eventually came to halt in his tracks, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his weight entirely on his right leg. Admittedly, his fingertips were freezing, and he felt that in any moment, theyโd suddenly fall off and break against the cobblestone floor. A marginally gruesome imagery, but one that wasnโt entirely impossible, especially if his damn cold continued to just get damn colder. After a moment of thought, however, he lowered his arms back to his flanks and instead let them sit on his waist. There were many calculations going through Hart Vikhrovโs head, particularly one of an ambush, so he supposed that being wary wasnโt always a bad thing, and this circumstance was one of them.
The Styx, he liked to think, was not a weak group at all, but heโd made the small gamble of not bringing any more members in case of a plight he hadnโt been able to imagine, and here all of his most valued players stood, gathered together in one, open area. It was the perfect place and time for a trap.
Letโs see. What else could Ambroos De Veen possibly conjure aside from the little rodent in the beginning? That mouse โwhich could have possibly lead to a much larger operationโ hadnโt been an appalling idea. Some gangs would have even been instantly eliminated, had they not been careful. But unfortunately for them, there was a reason for why Hart placed value in The Styx and the individuals who made it the reformed organization it was now. Theyโd just have to remind Ambroos that birds with clipped wings had only one fate: to wait until that one split second their heads hit the crooked streets of Ketterdamn and their heads split open like a duck egg. Slowly, with a dangerous amount of leisure, he raised his head to see the lone clock tower when he heard the familiar ring of the bells.
A few days ago, heโd received a polite, almost personal, letter from one of Ambroosโs envoys. He remembered the letter, of course, specifically because it had amused him to some degree. If his memories werenโt too scattered, it appeared to be a deliberate mirror of the letter heโd first written to The White Crow, back when the idea of cooperating with them had still ben an option. Itโd been sent at the same time with the same color of paper, and even the deliverer had been an oblivious Shu Han child. Of course, the meaning had been all too clear from the beginning, though. In Ketterdamn, it seemed that polite letters only served individuals as a means of approaching a certain matter in a roundabout way.
Come to the Docks in two days time, and prove you've earned them.
โThatโs an awfully fancy way to state a point, isnโt it?โ
Heโd glanced up from the scrawled words of the letter at the voice, only to see the amused golden eyes of a lithe, young woman who was leaning over the desk to get a better glimpse at the clean parchment he held in his hands. Her dark, glossy hair had fallen over her eyes, mingling in canopies of her long, inky black lashes, and the slight curl of her lips had lingered. As acute as he was, even he could not decipher the thoughts and emotions behind Shu Chernyaevโs smile.
โQuite so,โ heโd replied as heโd placed the thing down on his desk and leaned back in his seat. โWhat do you make of this matter, Chernyaev?โ
After a moment of thought, sheโd replied with thoughtful, almost curious, eyes. โI think itโd be best to ask Lifen that question once she arrives. I trust both of your judgement far more than that of my own, Hart.โ
Itโd been one of the many times heโd been sharply taken aback by Shuโs words, because despite for how long sheโd been with them, heโd never heard of the woman putting her faith in someone elseโs hands. There had been more than one rumour surrounding her, as well. Some said she was a hidden traitor while others claimed that she was a thief of thieves. A liar. Heโd always thought that sheโd trusted no one but herself. Apparently, heโd been wrong. What else was he wrong about this strange, strange girl?
Now, he glanced at his right side, spotting the sword fighter standing there with both gloved hands resting on the hilt of her sword. She looked completely at ease, he thought, and remained as an accurate depiction of restraint with her simple dark shirt and black, leather-like pants.
โPerhaps,โ he responded to Lifen, watching her sigh in false maudlin with a small smile taking ahold of his lips. โI suppose theyโre not known for their punctuality.โ
โThatโs quite all right,โ he heard Shu say with her golden eyes fixated on the moving shadows in the thick, fog. He saw her lips curve, her gaze focused on the shifting colors within the thick mist, like a slender predator ready to pounce. โIt wonโt change the result here.โ Shu Chernyaev
She saw him before she heard him. A thick smile was plastered across Ambroosโs face, and at this, a subtle unease roiled through Shu, though she watched them calmly, her golden eyes never quite leaving the faces that had appeared with him.
"Vikhrov! So glad you could make it. Did you get my message alright?"
Usually, from everything sheโd seen, the leaders of a gang would make some small talk as their seconds checked for any hidden weapons, conversing about any trivial matters that occurred in the city to avoid the true topic of why theyโd come together at this hour. Slowly, carefully, she unsheathed her weapon, holding the long, glinting silver blade next to her side. Tonight, however, it seemed that the norms would be broken. It seemed that Ambroos had made it quite clear that this diplomatic meeting would result in only one group standing as victors, and both leaders seemed adamant about arranging no negotiations. Watching Hart, who stood effortlessly with his sly green eye trained onto the emerging figures, made her realise this once more for absolute certain. He hadnโt brought them here just to let them listen to small talk. Heโd brought them here for a little bit of a less amicable reason.
โIt seems that you havenโt lost your sense of humour, Ambroos,โ she heard him speak, his languid voice light, though she didn't miss the black harmony that lazily crept in his tone. โAnd if youโre here, I suppose my message reached you fairly well, too, no?โ He seemed to be referring back to the new letter his second had carried along with a few other gifts.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 10, 2017 10:41:08 GMT -5
โถ Lifen Aaksterโถ
Lifen had never considered herself squeamish, not by any standards. Bugs, mice, eels; all just creatures living their lives (though she wasn't afraid to end the life of a roach if it tried its luck and got too close to her.) Life was too short to be scared of something that wasn't scary. But half of being squeamish is disgust, something she understood more readily. It was the dirtiness of a mouse, or the alien features of a spider, that drove people to hate them. That was sort of how she felt about the White Crows.
She'd done her research on them, just as she'd done on all of the gangs who posed a threat. Any time a new one appeared, or two merged together, she worked closely with Rafael to find out what there was to know. Handy little guy, the spider. Life would be pretty tricky without him. If the gang was worth a second thought, he'd be sent on repeat missions, report back to Lifen, she would make a note of anything that could be worrying, and then pass it on to Hart. The spider wasn't the only player who got in on it, Zamir was sent frequently to new clubs and casinos. He'd be given a pouch of kurge to spend and the night off, to fully exploit whatever the new facilities were. At the start, it'd been risky - what was to stop the actor from getting carried away? But Lifen soon learnt that if Zamir ever actually had fun, he'd probably keel over and die in about five minutes, so he was a good man to send in. He could sure act like he was enjoying himself, and he had a good range of accents, good enough to hide his own Suli accent, and enough skill with makeup to hide his tattoo and change his face radically. Work like that had slowed for him since the circus opened, however, as they didn't want him to be recognized.
The White Crows, her lodger now had written in it, were an oldish gang, who'd been operating for about 25 years now. Founded by a tall Kerch woman named Blanche, who for some reason spoke with a Ravkan accent, it'd been passed to her brother when she was horribly killed in a carriage accident. They owned a fair portion of the Barrel; three casinos, two bars and a pleasure house called 'Red Brick'. Not the name she would've gone for, but she wasn't really in the pleasure house business. She knew they'd been angling for the docks for a long time, buying over council members after council member, cutting through other gangs with a certain one track mindedness. In their time, certainly, the White Crows were a very dangerous bunch. But after Blanche's brother was forced into hiding in Novyi Zem for murdering two men in a bar fight, it was passed to Ambroos De Veen, a portly man, closer to sixty than fifty at the moment, who reminded her somewhat of an old fashioned chimney.
Under Ambroos, it was fair enough to say that the Crows had slipped a little bit. They were still a big enough gang sure, but the word 'threat' was thrown about less and less. Ambroos seemed more interested in the perks of being a leader, women money and booze, rather than the actual role. He'd do the numbers and get things done, but he'd never go above and beyond. Bad news for the White Crows, great news for The Styx. Hart had worked tirelessly to snatch up every small opportunity he could, until he started making his own. It was liking ripping holds in fabric, they only got bigger and bigger. Lifen could still remember being sent round to the White Crow's headquarters, not even 18 yet, and being laughed away. She'd never known the White Crows in their glory days, and she honestly didn't see why they were laughing about anything. Pettiness wasn't a nice virtue to have, but there are few more satisfying. One of her fondest memories was trying out her first bombs on the White Crows headquarters that night. It'd been a bold move, to hit their home, but hey, she was just following orders. It was round about then when she started to think maybe this life suited her a bit.
Since then, she'd had to deal with the White Crows a few times. It'd been two years, it was only natural that they'd cross paths, especially considering her own role as a messenger or envoy. Lifen wasn't a mind reader, but she just had this inkling that she wasn't quite welcome in the new headquarters (which had been done up lovely, really a nice job, you could barely even see the burn marks on the doorframes.), but she liked going there. She liked egging people on. Try something, the tilt of her eyebrow, the gleam in her eye and the curve of her lips would say without words, I dare you.
Like now, for instance. Ambroos was talking to Hart, who, to his credit, looked nothing but professional (and a little threatening, but that was part of being a professional), but she hoped he could feel her staring at him, and she hoped she startled his men. There was one woman with the White Crows tonight, and 'woman' was a generous term. She looked about 16, and if Lifen squinted, she thought she could see the red skin on her wrist around her tattoo. New member? To this fight? God, Ambroos must want her killed. Maybe she was a child he was regretting. Or she's Grisha. A voice in her head warned, and she took it into consideration. There were eight White Crows, counting Ambroos and she knew most of their faces. Looks like he'd brought his generals out with him tonight. He didn't come out here to lose. Such a shame.
โAnd if youโre here, I suppose my message reached you fairly well, too, no?โ
She heard the thin sound of Shu unsheathing her sword, but didn't turn her head to check. The specialist could handle herself, and she wasn't the type to strike too early. She could feel all of her peers around her shift as they got ready to fight. The changes were miniscule, borderline impossible to detect, but they were there. She herself got ready too. Her stance changed slightly, and her bag hung closer to her hand. She was glad she'd tied her hair so closely to her had, it would be unfortunate if it all got blown off.
"The mail system in this city can be so unreliable." Lifen added on after Hart, shaking her head in despair. It was risky, speaking up among the leaders, but she wasn't nervous. If Hart wanted her to be quiet, he'd let her know, but he hadn't, so she wouldn't. She'd helped him write the letter, which undoubtedly read very professionally, but the writing process had consisted of Lifen lounging in one chair, shoes off and eye closed, suggesting long and creative swearwords or violent and descriptive threats to Hart, sitting behind his desk writing the thing. He could come up with them himself, of course (he didn't even add any of them in in the end, coward), but sometimes these things needs a woman's touch.
โฆ Zamir Nejen โฆ He listened to Rafael speak and rolled his eyes skyward as he gestured grandly to the fog, "Sure, whatever. Say that again when you trip on a rope and break your neck." That almost sounded like a promise, though Zamir knew that if any of the members of The Styx was least likely to fall, it was going to be Rafael. Zera wasn't far off when she called him a cat. It was a nicer name too, even if it was an insult, spiders weren't very cute. Not that Rafael was cute, of course, but sometimes he did things that, when analysed under a lense, could be considered, scientifically, cute. Like the way he lowered his voice when he spoke to him. Hearing genuine concern in someone's voice was still jarring to him, and although he thought he liked it, he wasn't sure how to handle it, "Rest?" He raised one eyebrow and let his lips pull back in a dry smile, "It's Red Wine night at the Corona, and I'm off work tomorrow. They'll be pouring me out in a bottle at sunrise."
Zamir vowed, keeping his voice as low as Rafael's, lowering his face to speak right at him. It wasn't the healthiest route to take, but when he was tired, Zamir didn't want to sleep, he wanted to not feel like Hell, and nothing like a grape induced haze to make you forget your life sucked. Then, pulling back, suddenly casual again, "You could come too. Should be 'fun', guess." He admitted, though the way he dragged out the word suggested he didn't quite believe it.
When the spider fell back to stand beside Killian, of all people, Zamir felt a twinge of annoyance and took a sharp, heavy drag of his cigarette, letting the steam blow out his nostrils this time. Stupid trick, considering all he could smell now was cloves, but it felt good to do. Zamir was suddenly embarrassed by how harshly he'd snapped, and he didn't get embarrassed, not usually. But right now he was, he was embarrassed and vexed. He wasn't quite sure why he was so annoyed but he was, and he was also suddenly very eager for a fight. Maybe it was the wet fog waking him up, or that 'second wind' people were always talking about (though this must be roughly his forth by now), but he was glad that he was walking into somewhere he could let loose for a bit. Maybe this would be a healthy change of scenery. No need to fake smile here.
In response to Zera, he snorted in agreement, glad he wasn't the only immigrant who felt that way, "The only thing that could brighten up this dump is the Sun, which would hopefully burn it off the face of the planet." He kept glancing round, not exactly nervous, but trying to get his bearings. He didn't know this area so well, and in the dark, he might as well be on a Fjerdan tundra. Hopefully Lifen made enough of those garish flash bombs to light this place up like it was in the university district.
The White Crows made their appearance and approached, ugly brutes. All of them, so ugly. He felt himself sigh in despair, why was everyone in the world so hard to look at right now? Ambroos De Veen in particular was a nightmare. Zamir had bumped into him once when he was scouting out one of their bars, a flat roofed building called 'Buzz' where he forced his workers to dress like bumblebees. Those poor souls. Ambroos had been so drunk he could barely walk that night, though he was in a giddy mood, and despite his general feeling of disgust, Zamir had approached him in hope of prying anything out that was worth taking back to base. In the end though, all he got was felt up. Turns out his androgynous look was a little too good that night, and he was a little too friendly. He doubted the short old man remembered it, considering at the time he'd introduced himself as the 'Prince of the Wandering Isle'. It had been burned into Zamir's memories forever, unfortunately. Given half the chance tonight, he would cut Ambroos' fingers off.
Aware that the fight was getting closer and closer to breaking out, he snapped his mind back to reality, gladly burying the memory of the wandering pink hands, and flexed his own fingers; long, strong, and tanned. He could feel the water in the fog, and inbetween the cracks on the pavement, and hanging off people's hair and clothes. It was a good feeling. Felt like power. He didn't have much of that at the circus, and he certainly didn't have any of it when he was flouncing around in enemy clubs, but on this freezing early autumn night (or early morning), he felt brimming with it. He took the cigarette from his mouth, which had all but burned away by this stage, and tossed it into a tiny puddle, grinding down on it with the heel of his boot. โฉ Killian Manus โฉHe stood at the back and let the bosses to the talking. That was his job, after all. Just before they'd reached the docks, a tiny spark of conversation had flared, something he'd welcomed but not joined, but it had died now. He'd seen Edkaird come out of the mist like a specter and the hairs on his arms raised in alarm. People like him walked between worlds, he didn't care what anyone said. Tread light enough, and he might just vanish altogether.
He also saw Edkaird lean in close and murmur something to Nejen, or the snarky circus worker, as Killian privately called him. Frankly, Killian didn't see how someone who worked in the circus for a living had any right to be rude to anyone, but he never voiced this opinion. That was a sure fire way to get jeered to death. There was tiny clicks and scrapes as they passed down the street and into the open space of the docks. For a second, there was nothing but pitch blackness and his whole body tensed; Trap!! It's a trap!! You're going to die!! a shrill voice in his head insisted, and he was so taken aback by the volume of it, Killian hadn't noticed everyone else had stopped.
He bumped into Nejen from behind, and not even very hard, but he was still rewarded with a razor sharp, "Watch it." and a burning glare. Despite the other man being drastically smaller than him, he still managed to make himself seem more dangerous. Zeddrid also turned to see what was happening, the sudden number of eyes staring at him was enough to wither away any sharp retort he may've fired back at Nejen. He just ducked his head, doing his best to seem like no trouble, and backed up a bit. Once again, he found himself thinking of the circus shows he'd seen here in Ketterdamn, and was satisfied with the mental image of Nejen done up like a fool and being forced to dance around the dirt stage, calling at the audience. His own job was grueling, but at least it wasn't humiliating.
He faintly heard soft footsteps and raised his eye to see Edkaird had appeared beside him, the fog clinging to his clothes a little like he belonged to it. Phantom. His old superstitions whispered, Spider, he stamped them down sternly, refusing to be scared of someone he knew was an ally (Especially someone so small, and petite. Just looking down at him made Killian feel bigger.) He had a nice face, and much kinder eyes than most of the others. It seemed like the higher up in the gang they were, the harder their stares, though he'd only met Vikhrov's stare once, when they first met. Since then, Killian choose to look at the ground, or just behind his leader's head. He didn't like meeting the other man's eye, not at all.
Edkaird said something to him, but it was lost to the wind and distance between them. It sounded nice enough though. He even gave Killian a gentle nudge, there was so little force behind it the huge man barely registered it at all, but he nodded down in appreciation all the same. He raised his head like a rabbit when he heard someone walking across the docks to greet them. He didn't know much about the White Crows, he wasn't the type to do research, no one ever told him anything and he didn't ask. He just knew that tonight they were due a beating for thinking that they were due a beating. So much violence.
From the back, he barely heard a word, just saw the rival gang leader smile and the back of Vikhrov's head nod slightly as he spoke. Slipping his hands into his pockets, they came out again wearing the bronze knuckles he'd bought from a pawn shop. It was hard to find ones that fit him, but these ones did the job. Before he came here, he'd never thought he needed extra force, but he'd learn that people in Ketterdamn were more used to taking hits that the folks back home.
Ambroos De Veen It was creepy, looking right at Vikhrov's face and seeing only one clear-as-water eye gleaming back, but he didn't let his gaze waver. He wasn't scared of this pup, because that's all he was, a pup, trying to bite off more than he could chew. He ignored the second in command when she spoke (seconds should be seen until it's necessary that they're heard), but nodded his head in response to Hart's inquiry, "Oh yes, there was no trouble there."
As clear as his own message had been, the return letter seemed to only say 'COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YOU'RE HARD ENOUGH', though it was expertly hidden behind articulate penmanship. The kids knew how to act like adults when it was called for, but they still had a lot to learn.
"I trust then, you understand why this meeting this evening is so important." He steepled his fingers like a preacher, something he thought made himself look quite dignified or pensive, "Really, this is a very delicate matter. The fate of these docks," He gestured to them with one hand (unaware that Zamir watched his movements with a sour, haunted expression), "Affects a lot of good people. Good, honest, hard working people. The blood of Ketterdamn." He was rough and tough himself, but he'd learnt how to speak proper over the years, it was an important skill for s leader to have. "These docks are far too valuable to let someone, if you don't mind me saying, inexperienced handle them." He heard one of his own men snicker at that, but didn't turn to shush him, "Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr Vikhrov? It's truly for the good of this city that the White Crows take what is rightfully their's."
No point trying to hide why they were here. He could feel his men balloon behind him, getting ready to strike, "If you walk away right now, things can be righted without needing violence."
I'll update her forms now!) |
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Post by Deleted on Aug 11, 2017 11:23:37 GMT -5
hey guess what i have too much time on my hands thats what
so i drew the dudes 00: sorry if your characters don't look quite right!! and i dont know WHAT zera is wearing im sorryโข i drew everybody with only one eye to symbolise their loyalty to Hart?? or something like that idk, it just seemed like a good idea |
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Post by carmine. on Aug 11, 2017 13:34:23 GMT -5
Shu Chernyaev
There were two, small factors that differentiated Hart from some of the generalised leaders of the gangs that roamed through the misshapen streets of Ketterdamn: he was flamboyant when it came to his personality (oftentimes a little melodramatic when he accidentally stubbed his toe somewhere, which was something that had happened before though heโd learned his lesson to not walk around only with a pair of socks), but externally avoided any garish suits and jewellery that would let the whole world know of his exact location, and he seemed a little more lenient when it came to the hierarchy system.
Besides that, while she was aware that he kept his distance and held a rather steely exterior to break open, he seemed to stop fairly often for any member of The Styx who wished to speak with him, lightly conversing with them for a healthy amount of minutes before departing. His tolerance showed even more in his own office, where Lifen could occasionally be found lounging on one of the couches with her shoes off (while Shu knew he'd never admit it, she could tell that the small banters or conversations he shared with Lifen were things he looked forward to), and especially when they faced other gangs together.
Whatever societal rule that may have existed regarding status, for that brief moment of facing those such as The White Crows, imploded; for that amount of time, their lives were just as equal as his. It was no wonder why it was so difficult to reach the place where the currently gathered individuals stood, next to Hart, facing the emerging men and woman from the massive fog โ he chose the individuals he placed his trust in very delicately and punctiliously.
The only thing that seemed to keep that line of order and set him as the leader, however, was the silent insistence of most of its members, who were the ones who kept him held as their leader, such as Rafael, who never stood out of his way to raise his voice unless it was necessary otherwise (or when he thought of a great pun to say in the face of their enemies) and instead carried an expression of satisfaction at the sight of Hart and Lifen. And there was, of course, Zera. The only reason why she seemed to let Hart take the lead was because it seemed that she couldn't care less (as most things or individuals were for her) about grasping a position as critical and burdened as the leader, who'd be held responsible for a variety of things.
As for Shu โ who lingered silently at ease, eyeing their opposing gang with a faint sense of apathy with the corners of her lips hinting at a micshivous smile โ she preferred to observe their surroundings before a brawl took motion, and because... well, that was just the flow of her solitary personality.
Calculate, understand, and observe as much as possible before diving into something. It was something she'd learned with disappointing repetition and difficulty, though it was something she was thankful that sheโd been able to understand and consider. But the main reason for why she showed no interest in the position, aside from her personality that kept her more hidden in the shadows, was because power was not an ambition of hers โ no, there were other things she wished to achieve other than wielding strength as a leader. At the thought, Shuโs golden eyes narrowed a little in thought. Other thingsโฆ. Yes, there were still many things to piece together in her memory which crackled and buzzed like a static radio โ the many missing pieces that prevented her from understanding exactly who she exactly was. And there always seemed to be a faint sense at the back of her mind that she was searching for someone, though for what reason she did not know.
The faint image of a young girlโs face (no younger than herself) materialised in front of her eyes, though she could not make out her exact features. It was strange, because she thought that she could see this individualโs face distinctively, yet could not all the same. It was as if she was constantly swimming through a lost dream, seeing things yet never being able to recollect them once she woke up.
It was then Shuโs sharp golden eyes turned to rest on the sole woman in the midst of The White Crows. A woman? Shu tilted her head, just a little to the side, as she regarded this individual. No, that wasnโt right. Upon closer inspection, she looked no older than sixteen, and sheโd never seen her before. Shu felt her lips curl a little, this time in distaste. When she took a glimpse at Hartโs expression, past his hardened gaze, his eye seemed to indicate the same sentiment. After all, a girl โ assuming she was new because they knew nothing of her, and it seemed that Rafaelโs smile hid an undercurrent of something indescribable โ being sent out to a fight like this was practically a leader handing out a death sentence. Saints, was Ambroos that eager to kill her off? Orโฆ was there another reason? She could be Grisha, a part of her mind warned, causing her to grip the hilt of her sword even more tightly than before. Part of her wanted to make eye contact with one of their two leaders to see whether if theyโd noticed โ but another part of her kept her still, because a something told her that theyโd already realised this possibility far before she had herself.
"The mail system in this city can be so unreliable.โ
It was true.
She was just surprised that, even with Hartโs properly delivered message, theyโd still come here to fight. For a moment, she'd even been thinking that they hadnโt received Hartโs articulate letter.
Rafael Edkaird
"Sure, whatever. Say that again when you trip on a rope and break your neck."
โAnd if I do,โ he said with a wink and light, mischievous smirk in Zamirโs direction, โIโll make sure to come back here to haunt you, and you wonโt be able to exorcist me after that. I reckon Iโd make a rather persistent ghost.โ Honestly, Rafael was starting to wonder what kind of afterworld spirit heโd be, if he truly was to become one. Would he be resentful? Would he linger, haunting a certain location while not quite being able to unravel his rues and resolve his regrets? Not that he really believed these superstitions, but it was a rather familiar subject he was used to hearing about because of how many times heโd heard of such stories in his bed.
Of course, that had been back when heโd been little and naive โ back when heโd let himself believe in almost anything that heโd been told. If he emptied his mind and let his mind drift like the fog that cloaked them, hanging onto bits of their clothing, he swore he could still smell the faint musk of lavender and warm blankets and old books; everything that had been there in his motherโs chamber, when heโd visited her as frequently as possible after sheโd fallen ill. Heโd even gone as far as to sneak out of his own quarters, risking the encounter of his fatherโs asperity.
He felt a sharp pang in his chest and found his throat tightening a little. He did miss her, he really did. He had been the eighth son of that impassive family, and as such, the care or attention heโd received had been limited. All the children of his family had been competitive, and they had all been swept off their feet by the notion of greed, ultimately bowing to its tantilizing promises. In order to live in their own prosperous world, in order to create a narrow one-dimensional disillusion for themselves filled with riches and wives and husbands and success, they had done everything in their power to dismantle each other, like baby eagles knocking each other off their nest to decrease the number of mouths to feed. Perhaps it was why now, Rafael avoided competition and kept out of its way, because as the shortest family member and the most adaptable learner, too, heโd been a constant target for his siblings to loathe. But, even in that environment, sheโd always welcomed him, and sheโd been one of the only one who had seemed to understand him. The last time heโd โโฆ
He forced himself to draw in a small breath. Let that thought go. This was not the appropriate time to let images of his past slowly accumulate in his head. These memories would make him hesitate, and hesitance in a soon-to-be brawl would lead to nothing but a final, fatal blow. Shrugging the whispers in his head off as best as he could, he focused his attention back on the serpentine streets with his perceptive dark, amber-brown eyes, though he found his attention snapping back to a certain someone when they spoke once more. โRest?โ It wasnโt the fact that Zamirโs voice had started him, but rather, the distance that made him almost jump a little.
"It's Red Wine night at the Corona, and I'm off work tomorrow. They'll be pouring me out in a bottle at sunrise."
Oh, Saints, was it just because heโd been caught off guard, or did the cold night suddenly feel a little warmer? And was it just him, or had he felt a sharp, small twinge of something he couldnโt quite describe when heโd pulled back?
"You could come too. Should be 'fun', guess.โ
He seemed to draw out the word โfun,โ causing Rafael to tilt his eyebrow, though he allowed an easy smile to return to his lips. โIt would be a shame to miss it,โ he answered as he tipped his head to the side. โAnd I suppose havenโt been at the Corona for Red Wine night in a while.โ It was his not-so-subtle way of agreeing that he'd be there, assuming that he wasn't dead or knocked out from all the weariness.
Hopefully none of those things would happen, he thought as he let the effortless curve of his lips linger upon sighting Killianโs nod. The gentle giant had always come off a little quiet in his eyes, not to mention a little shy. Manus had turned out to be an entirely different person from what Rafael had originally suspected, though, and heโd come to appreciate the red-haired man soon enough, especially with the morals he seemed to retain.
All around him, the moment heโd met Zamir and had been lead to an utterly different life, heโd been surrounded by individuals whoโd become seasoned from the nature of the streets, impenetrable like a bed of indurated stone. Finding someone with their morals intact was something quite rare in Ketterdamn, and it was something that he personally admired, because to some extent, his own had been washed down the drain (the influence of Hart, Lifen, and the rest of the crew had been a little too convincing to not follow.) Come to think of it, there wasnโt anyone here he truly harboured any negative feelings towards (though he supposed the same could not be said for them when they looked at him, because he understood that he could be a little โloudโ when he wanted to be, like a hurricane.)
Spotting The White Crows was like barreling into an old box of dusty, archaic objects that had been locked away in an attic for years. He recognised seven individuals, but found his eyebrows furrowing together just a little at the sight of the girl.
He was used to patiently waiting in dark, cramped environments to pick up certain information, eavesdropping on those who did not realize that a spider was closely listening to them, and The White Crows had been a large portion of these unsuspecting individuals. Sometimes heโd even discreetly yet directly head straight into their clubs and casinos when different requirements were requested from him. It was easier for him to slip in and out of these bustling structures because of his work, after all, since his face slipped past many minds unnoticed like a mask. His height made it easy for him to be buried in a shifting human current as well, and he tactfully disappeared underneath the flashing lights and in the midst of the yellow music like a true ghost to exploit new knowledge. It seemed that Hart and Lifen shared his own thoughts regarding the matter, hence the reason for why he was still sent, oftentimes with his black hat when he wasnโt trying to squeeze himself through vents and certain pipes (and many, many more โpeculiarโ places he did not want to think of.) But never had he seen or heard of this girl up till this point.
Zera Zeddrid
For once, Zera found that she agreed with Zamir. "The only thing that could brighten up this dump is the Sun, which would hopefully burn it off the face of the planet." Indeed, she found herself wishing the same. And even the sun seemed to have a difficult time brightening up Ketterdamn.
Every morning (or afternoon, depending on when she chose to woke up unless Hart demanded otherwise for that day), when she stepped out of the Nightjarโs feeble comfort, sheโd face the air shimmering from the merciless heat of the sun (even though it was autumn, at times, the weather seemed to have its own, stubborn attitude) as plumes of black smoke unfurled from the rusted pipes and the weak walls of the buildings creaked in complaint. Once she took a step away from any location The Styx had tirelessly worked to own, the air would be plagued with the indescribable stale scent of sweat โ or permeate with a thick, false sweetness of perfume. Shadows, she noticed, still yawned over the bustling human currents and crept over every corner of the city, and sometimes no man or woman would know of what occurred in those covert, narrow alleyways. The sun (figuratively) barely touched all of Ketterdamn, let alone Kerch.
Letting a soft and subtly amused โhumphโ escape her lips, Zera brushed a stray strand of her pale hair away from her face as she drew out one of her many silver pistols. The weight of the weapon sat in her dexterous hands comfortably, as if it belonged there and nowhere else; she enjoyed holding a finely tuned gun in her hand as she tested out its balance, eyeing the perfect, gleaming end of its nuzzle. These glittering, human-slaughtering weapons were precisely her prized babies. โIt seems that you and I agree with something, Zamir.โ Sheโd almost called him โcircus boy,โ though she stopped herself from letting the two syllables touch the tip of her tongue. After all, she didnโt think that itโd be well received (well, not that she really cared, but maybe she did just a little tonight for his sanity and their own sake as well), especially when even she could somewhat tell that he appeared to be, to some degree, distressed from the dayโs chastening toil. In Zeraโs perspective, it seemed most natural for her to refer to others by the impression theyโd given her the most, hence one of the many reasons for why for Zera, Rafael would always be that โhalf-witted cat,โ and why the rich, selfish merchants of the city for her had always been known as โpiglings.โ
There were two things that the sniper disliked: darkness, and heavy fog. Darkness, in reality, could be effective in many different ways, and even she understood its essential influence over a fight โ it could serve as a weapon that would end a fight before it even began. But put the two together, and the chances of gambling on lives and risking casualties became much easier to witness and experience. Had she ever mentioned that she disliked unnecessary casualties? Despite how violent she could be with her hard-set jaw and her intense eyes that glared down at an individual whoโd dared to challenge her or arouse her from her slumber โ despite the shadows that cast over her face and her gaze nonchalantly received anyoneโs foolishly arrogant dare, if there was another thing about Zera that most people misunderstood, it was her distaste with bringing unnecessary casualties. If it wasnโt necessary, then it wouldnโt be done, and that was that.
When the White Crows finally emerged seemingly lackadaisically at that, she eyed them with her sharp, bitter coffee brown eyes and ran her hand through her soft hair. She didnโt think much of them, regarding them as nothing but a vexing fly peskily adamant about pestering them. Most things were like flies to Zera, really. And right now, at this moment, Ambroos De Veen was the king of them all. Hart Vikhrov
โIf weโre inexperienced, I wonder what that makes you?โ
The dark harmony that had crept into Shuโs voice was unmistakable. Beneath the calm of her tone was an undercurrent of something else that Hart could not quite dare to describe, but it was there. Her dark, unwavering golden eyes remained fixed on The White Crow, and the familiar curve of her lips lingered as well, unfaltering, mysterious as ever. It wasnโt like the half-Shu Han young woman to speak at this moment, especially with the given circumstances, and he wondered what had sparked some motivation in her to risk her voice from being heard.
Was it because of the way Ambroos had brushed Lifenโs words off like he would with an insect, just as he had back when sheโd first been sent to their head quarters? From what he remembered, his second had been laughed away, pushed to the side and disregarded. So had he. It took Hart one glance at Shuโs eyes to know that that was most likely the reason for why she had let the words slip from her lips.
"Really, this is a very delicate matter. The fate of these docks affects a lot of good people. Good, honest, hard working people. The blood of Ketterdamn.โ
Letting the words pry his attention back from his own peers, who all seemed more than ready to pounce, he trained his eye back onto those of Ambroos. The more and more he let the old manโs words loop on a repeat in his mind, the more and more Hart felt a small sense of amusement. The blood of Ketterdamn. Such elaborate yet superficial words, he thought, letting the silence sit for a long while in between their groups. He could practically feel the tension coursing through the muscles of his gang, and he saw Lifenโs hand inch a little closer to her satchel. The tips of his fingers yearned to brush against his own weapons, though he held himself steady, maintaining the same posture and poise. It seemed that the ugly ducklings were determined to attempt thievery tonight. Fine. He tilted his head, almost fastidiously. Itโd been a while since The Styx had gotten a chance to relish on a fight such as this one, anyway.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Hart spoke with a streak of light-hearted pleasure lacing his voice. โThe Northern Dock is ours,โ he said with his smooth voice as he gestured over at the swaying boats and the black water that resembled the pitch dark eye of a raven as he rested his hand on his waist. His nefarious smile didnโt quite reach his gleaming eye. โMy deepest apologies, Ambroos, but Iโm afraid it isnโt up for negotiation.โ
โAs for your earlier statement, forgive me if I misheard you, love, but I vaguely remember you mentioning something about good, honest, hard working people. Are you including yourself as one of these honest people as the man who set up a small present for us on our way here?โ
Kameron. He thought he caught a glimpse of Rafaelโs grin at that moment, his catty amber eyes also trained onto the opposing group.
โItโs a vile trick for such an good man to implement, donโt you think?โ
And I donโt remember you pigeons ever owning the docks even once, he silently added in his head, though he decided not to press the matter too further. Tonight would make it bountifully clear that little pigeons could possibly rule a small nest of their own, they could not rule that of a hawk. โI know it's an effortless attempt for you,โ he purred, โbut try not to play too coy with me, Ambroos.โ
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Post by carmine. on Aug 11, 2017 13:36:07 GMT -5
oh my goodness. oh my goodness thatโs AMAZING <3 they look so badass and cool and wow
wow thatโs really stellar artwork, saph. i swear how do you draw so well? iโm at a loss of words.
omg are you kidding me thatโs literally them and zeraโs attire looks awesome.
iโm totally making this my background (if that's ok with you!!) )
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Post by Deleted on Aug 11, 2017 15:25:16 GMT -5
Ambroos De Veen
Another woman spoke up, a pretty enough little thing with a sword. Frankly, Ambroos didn't like seeing women doing nasty stuff like this, it was a bit below them, wasn't it? There were plenty of women working with the White Crows, they needed waitresses and pleasure house workers after all, but very very few of them got up on nights like these, when there was blood to be spilt. (He missed the irony of running a gang that had been founded by a woman). The young girl with him today simply went by 'Bunny', and frankly, he wasn't found of her. She was bratty, and only seemed to be interested in joining a gang for the money, and not at all tempted by anything he said about companionship or pride. Still, an inferni was an inferni, and he wanted to see what the sparky little Grisha could do.
He thought he knew this other woman's face, or at least he'd heard of her. In the age of guns and Grisha, there weren't many swordsmen walking the streets of Ketterdamn, not anymore. He had his own spider, of course, most of the gangs did, who'd told him about the aptly named Shu Han girl. Her parents mustn't have been very creative, if Shu was the only thing that could come up with (Of course, those in glass houses and all that. Ambroos wasn't even creative enough to imagine how this fight could go wrong.)
His eyes flicked briefly to the young woman's and then back to Hart, "You're quite relaxed in your approach to how your subordinates act around important company." He didn't bother trying to hide the annoyance in his voice, Ambroos De Veen was a man of standards, and (in his own mind), ran a tight ship at the White Crows headquarters. Even his own generals thought twice before chipping in, and they always asked for permission first. This was just another sign of an immature leader, letting anyone speak over him.
He let Hart speak, and when he mentioned Kameron, thought about denying it, but decided against it at the last minute. Always better to encourage rather than deny, it was much easier, "All's fair, Vikhrov. You know what kind of game we're playing here. Maybe I'm not as honest as I used to be," He gave a heavy shrug, as if it were a burden he was glad to bear, "But that doesn't mean I don't still understand that there are men and women out there, working these docks every day, who don't have the luxury to be as liberal with their forces as I do."
"I can see that you're mind's been made up about this, which is unfortunate." He drew himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders. He was an older man now, but he'd still made a name for himself in Ketterdamn, and there are certain types of roughness that never fade, "I did hope we could settle this like gentlemen, but," He pulled his lips back over his teeth in what was either a grimace or a smile, "It appears we're going to have to do this the Ketterdamn-way. Aren't we?" He raised his hand behind him, and his men shifted again, ready to fight. He'd brought his best out here, it was time to put an end to the irksome reign of The Styx, for good. Time to give them a beating they don't crawl back from. He let his left hand drop down, and drew out his gun with his right, as his men rushed forward.
โถ Lifen Aaksterโถ
He ignored her, again.
This man was asking for a lesson in manners in the worst possible way.
In day-to-day life, Lifen was hard enough to upset or imbalance. Regardless of mood, she normally had a smile, ranging from the kind that made your eye vanish, to a sly and sharp sliver of a smirk. When called upon to be serious, the smile fell, but a frown rarely rose up to meet it, she stayed neutral until the situation was resolved. She felt her emotions strongly, but had a quick enough mind to control them. Like right now, for instance, her vexation was barely visible. She stood there, a demure smile on her face, head slightly tilted as she listened to the old man whistle away, but there was a hardness at the edge of her eyes and mouth, and her right hand had completely vanished into her satchel.
Of course, they were all under instructions to not do too much damage to the docks, and she was confident that the White Crows were under the same orders, but no one was going to miss Ambroos De Veen's stupid face if she blew it off the side of the earth.
When Shu spoke up, her silver eyes darted to her, and the second in command gave an appreciative, miniscule nod to her. It was nice to see visible annoyance flutter across the rival leader's face - Can't ignore all of us, you pasty son of a sow.
Damn it, she shouldn't told Hart to put that in the letter, that was a good line.
Oh well. She could engrave it on his chest in a few minutes, judging by how this conversation was turning. Ambroos truly believed that the docks were his? Stupid man. His gang had been masters of the universe once, but he'd let them slip, and he had the audacity to seem annoyed that his actions (or lack of) had consequences? This was going to be a satisfying fight.
And it looked like it was coming quicker and quicker, as was the fog, which was clinging heavily to everyone now. She knew the buildings around here had been bordered up for the night, but she still wondered how they must look from a distance - seven vs eight, black silhouettes edged in mist. She suddenly wished she was perched on a gable, watching the fight unfold. She'd never been too interested in fights when she was younger, but when she first dipped her toe in the pool, she acquired an indisputable hunger for it.
De Veen raised his hand up, and she let herself loosen up, taking her hand from her satchel and letting her other one fall to her whip. Lifen's fighting style relied heavily on being fluid and relaxed, she was far too close to the rest of her gang to let off even one of her smaller bombs. She'd probably blow Hart's foot up and she'd never hear the end of that. He could be so dramatic at times. De Veen's hand began to drop, and his other hand came out of his jacket pocket, though it seemed to be happening very slowly, as important things happening quickly often did.
Ambroos' men rushed forward, young girl included, her hand spread out like fans to either side, a flint in her right hand, Definitely Grisha. But the flint meant she worked with fire, which eliminated any fear that she was a Heartrender. One of those would really be an issue. But a teenage firecracker? Could be dealt with.
Ambroos' arm, still moving slowly like everything else, began to level out and aim his gun, just as Lifen's own arm was raised above her head , her whip coming out behind it like a ribbon. She snapped her arm forward and back, relishing in the crack as it broke the sound barrier, and time sped up again. Ambroos cursed and dropped his gun, clutching his hand, which had been split open by the tip of Rook. Best 15 kurge Lifen ever spent. She took a little moment to gloat when her eyes locked with Ambroos as he raised his head to see who'd struck him, and only wished she'd been able to split open his face instead.
She was suddenly also wishing she hadn't let herself gloat at all, because someone barreled into her and knocked her to the ground. Her ears stopped ringing from the rack of her whip and sound flooded back in as the fight took place; gunshots, grunts, the sound of fists connecting with faces and the tin-y scream of metal being drawn from seathes.
She grunted as her back hit the cobblestones, but she managed to keep her head from knocking the ground and blacking out, though she'd landed on her bag. Looks like she was going to have a satchel shaped bruise tomorrow. The big guy on top of her raised his fist and brought it down against the bridge of her nose and the world exploded into pain.
Looks like she was going to have two major bruises. Whatever, chicks dig black eyes.
โฆ Zamir Nejen โฆ โAs for your earlier statement, forgive me if I misheard you, love, but I vaguely remember you mentioning something about good, honest, hard working people."
Hearing Hart say 'love', either as a noun or a pet name, was enough to put Zamir on edge. It was like seeing an empty coffin lying outside an undertaker's, ready for collection. Spooky. He doubted Ambroos took too fondly to it either, he was one of those men with silly misconceptions about his own fragile masculinity. Weak, in other words.
Zamir never knew where he stood with Hart, and he didn't like that. He was used to balancing acts, it was one of his better skills in the circus, but Hart danced on a knife's edge between remorseless and flamboyant. One of them was fake, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know which one was which.
He could remember the day he'd first met Hart incredibly vividly, like he knew it was important at the time, although he didn't know why, his mind still made sure he'd remember it. When he first got to Ketterdamn, after the weeks he'd spent on Novyi Zem, there'd been no work at all, anywhere. The pleasure houses were always hiring, but Zamir wasn't that brave, and he wasn't that desperate, not yet. So, he'd taken to the streets with a scarf in one hand and a tambourine in the other. He was pleased to see there were few Suli around, the more 'exotic' people thought he looked, the better.
He mainly stayed in the slightly nicer areas, dancing for as long as he could before gathering up his things and hightailing it every time a patrol came by, or the gang whose land he was in wanted to know who the hell he thought he was. He made decent enough coin (looking back on it, it had been peanuts, but it's been enough to keep him from starving, though he spent warmer nights on the streets). He'd seen Hart a few times before they actually spoke, either glimpses of him when they passed each other in the street (it was hard to forget the single piercing eye), or brief eye contact if he passed by when Zamir was dancing.
He'd never been superstitious or religious, never, but living with people who were his whole life had left a bit of a mark on him, and there was something 'half-in, half-out' about that man, as some of his family would say back in Ravka. Half men walked with one foot in the shadows, and you must never, ever, make a deal with them, because they always have their own agendas.
Half men weren't real, of course, they were just an old wives tale, designed to keep children from approaching strangers, but all the same, Zamir had been awfully tempted to bless himself whenever he saw the green eyed man.
His mind had wandered, and Ambroos was waxing lyrical about something stupid no doubt, but he forced himself back to the present when he heard a familiar crack split the air. The first time he'd heard it, he'd thought it was a gun shot and he'd ducked like a fool, but now he knew that just meant the fight was on. Maybe it was like a gun, like a starter's gun.
Zamir spread his arms out around him and pulled them around in a circle that got gradually tighter, in one swift fluid movement. The fog in the air pulled snugger around the Styx, and he himself back up, arms still going. Normally the wind was left to Zera to deal with, but the fog was so heavy tonight that it bent to his command. He heard real gunshots now, and smelt gunpowder, but his visibility was getting worse and worse as he pulled the fog closer and closer. "Rafael," He hissed, before the fog made them vanish completely, "I can cover you, go."
The spider was such a little guy that it didn't feel fair sending him out into a fight like this, not without some kind of shroud. Normally Rafael was invisible on his own accord, but tonight, he shouldn't take chances. There was no fear for him fighting, however. Zamir knew he could leave everyone to deal with their troubles himself , though he still nudged his shotgun off his back.
โฉ Killian Manus โฉAt the back of the group, Killian hadn't heard what one of the men said, but one second they were just standing there, and the next, the White Crows were rushing forward and someone had their gun out. Normally not the kind to even knock over a chair and not apologize, Killian shouldered his way to the front of the ground, getting there in little more than one huge stride, fists raised. He knew by now that once the words stopped, he was to be near the front.
The fog was suddenly incredibly dense, and everyone moved so quickly. Killian was strong, but speed was never his forte, and he marvelled at huge swiftly they dispersed. He heard someone grunt, turned his head and saw Lifen Aakster underneath a man much larger than her, but miles smaller than himself. Killian grabbed the back of the man's neck and hauled him backwards, tossing him onto the cobblestones. He turned to see if Aakster was alright, but she had already grabbed her whip, which had fallen from her hand, scrambled up, and vanished into the fog, throwing a quick, "Thankyouverymuch!" over her shoulder.
He turned his focus back to the fight, the big man he'd taken off Lifen was up again and charging him, yelling. Why were men his size so loud? Weren't they embarrassed? He came in close and Killian ducked back, raising his fists like the boxers who fought in town squares sometimes.
He hit the man once in the nose with his bronze knuckles, while his opponent fired shots into Killian's stomach, and the once under the chin, which connected with a loud clunk, causing the man to stagger back. Killian himself bent over a bit, slightly winded from the punches he'd taken, but pressed forwards. Two seconds too late, he saw a glint of steel in the night and felt a sharp, burning pain along his right arm as the other man's knife split open his skin.
The silent, deserted night was a corpse now, and the northern docks were alive with the quagmire. The folks who lived close by had probably been woken by the noise, and were doing their best to go back to sleep, glad they'd chosen to lock the doors tonight.
There was a burst of fire somewhere to his left, and he winced away from it, ducking to avoid another swing from the White Crows man.The man kept firing punches and Killian raised his arms, taking them one after another, feeling one of his arms go slick with blood,until an opening presented itself, and present itself it did.
He heard the familiar voice of the second in command yell from somewhere in the fog, "Heads up!" and shut his eyes fiercely to the sudden burst of blinding white light. When he opened them, figures were briefly silhouetted in the fog before fading, and the other man was reeling backwards, clearly having caught full blast from the flash bomb.
Taking the opportunity, he dashed forward, grabbed the man's lapels and swung his forehead towards the other man's nose. It took three headbutts, but eventually the man went limp and dropped to the ground, nose ruined. Killian made a face at the sensation of someone else's blood trickling down between his eyes and wiped his face furiously, smudging it into a deep red. Headbutting was a nasty business, but it was so very effective. He turned around, panting, looking for the next fight, but only saw fog around him.
ahhh im glad you like it!!! it was a lot of fun to draw!! c: they've all got big personalities, which is always fun, tho my search history is just 'standing pose. standing pose ref. standing pose with gun. standing pose with sword. arms crossed. business suit' as i try desperately to find good photo references.
yes, you can use it as your background, ofc!!
im sorry if the fight sequences sound blocky 00: i don't have a lot of practise with them) |
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Post by carmine. on Aug 12, 2017 13:01:53 GMT -5
Shu Chernyaev
Her golden eyes narrowed, though the sliver of a smile upon Shuโs lips remained when she met eyes with the leader of The White Crows. To think that she could have been a part of them with a turn of events, perpetually standing next to them, yielding her weapon to their every bidding. A life as a white crow was something she was certain she couldnโt imagine, and the thought alone made her expression flicker with disappointment as acute as her earlier mischievous amusement. Sheโd heard of Ambroos far before sheโd even become a part of The Styx, when rumours of him had flown through many ears, as had his rapacious appetite for riches and women. With a little bit of research (full courtesy to Zamir and Rafael), she was certain these were all confirmed facts instead of mere lies being thrown around for pitiful entertainment. But heโd derailed from the path Blanche and her brother had established, and now, all that was left for him was the way down.
The subtle curve of her lips seemed to become a little more noticeable at the annoyance that was weaved in Ambroosโs voice, and upon sighting Lifenโs slight nod. He wouldnโt be able to ignore any of them for long, let alone Lifen. Taking a glimpse over at their second in command was enough to let her know that behind the small tilt of her head and the demure smile she wore, there was an undercurrent of fierce vexation, for the edge of her eyes and mouth seemed to harbour steel. Surely heโd heard of Lifenโs notorious reputation throughout the the angular streets of Ketterdamn? And if not, she thought to herself, letting herself drop to a stance and allowing tension to course through her veins as the air seemed to grow heavier and heavier from apprehension, he's going to experience it first-hand very soon.
She caught sight of Lifenโs sharp, silver eyes, and for a moment, stilled. She never quite had been able to understand what the leader and his second had seen in her enough to bring her here, letting her escape the caged walls and stringent occupation sheโd despised. โThereโs no particular reason, really,โ she remembered Hart say as he raked his hand through his dark locks with his green eye trained on the papers scattered over his desk. Heโd glanced up at her as heโd leaned back in his seat with his chin resting upon his propped up hand, the air around him effortlessly nonchalant, though his one clear eye remained unnervingly razor-sharp. โBut you do have a large debt to repay, and I hope you donโt forget that anytime soon, Chernyaev.โ It was a rather confusing explanation because heโd really not elaborated on anything any further when sheโd first asked, though she had been and still was grateful nonetheless. Even if she had been brought here for personal gains, she still remained obliged, because she couldnโt deny that theyโd been the ones whoโd liberated her from those tall, confined walls. As Hart had said, she wasnโt going to forget that reality anytime soon.
"I did hope we could settle this like gentlemen, but it appears we're going to have to do this the Ketterdamn-way. Aren't we?โ
It didn't seem like theyโd be able to keep the docks from being destroyed too much. At least, it felt impossible to leave it largely unscathed, anyway, especially the moment she spotted the flint in the girlโs hand. Most certainly Grisha. All around them, everything seemed to slow down, as if time was on the brink of collapsing entirely: the way how the fog clung to them in thick curls of gray as The White Crows surged forward, the way how Ambroosโ arm soon emerged to reveal a fine gun in his hand with its glinting nuzzle aimed in their direction, the way how Lifenโs whip rose high in the air like a great, formidable serpent before it hit the floor, letting a sharp crack resonate through the thick air. The beginning gunshot.
The brawl had begun.
Shu only had enough time to hear a curse slip past Ambroosโ lips before she dove in, her feet quick against the uneven cobblestone floor. It was true that, with the values of people constantly changing and the time rapidly ticking, the number of swordsmen had decreased in Ketterdamn, making her one of the last remaining few. But there was a reason for why she still hung on to a blade and why she had not yet abandoned the tactics it offered, even with the invention of pistols and guns and weapons that had not been comprehensible nor plausible only up till a few years ago. โTheyโre very rude, those guns,โ she remembered a heavily accented voice in her head, thick with displeasure and abhorrence. โNo manners, whatsoever with loud, banging sound and disgusting gunpowder.โ Shuโs jaws tightened. Why did it seem that bits and pieces of her memory seemed to mockingly return to her whenever she held a sword? Each piece was like a mirthlesss, derisive laugh, because as soon as it came in her sight, it vanished.
It didnโt matter now. For Saintโs sake, focus, Chernyaev.
Wielding a sword was almost like an art form of itself. Step after step, lunge after lunge, it required absolute precision and a balanced rule, or the wielder would undoubtedly become subdued by their opponent. Swinging her arm in a clean arc to the side when one of Ambroosโ men decided to discreetly approach her left flank, she caught the end of this manโs sword with her own blade. He was tall with black eyes, and she felt a twinge of bemusement when she noticed that his irises were so large that the black nearly filled his entire eyes like two pools of tar. His grin seemed to reach his ears, so twisted and foul that the Cheshire cat would be proud of him.
โVery good,โ he said through his teeth when her blade whistled past him, just barely grazing over his skin to draw a clean, thin line of blood. โYouโre not some made-up rumour, then.โ Made-up rumour? Ah, yes, well, she couldnโt blame him for thinking that way. It was rare for anyone to be in possession of a sword in this era, after all. He then struck her blade with full force, and she grunted at the force required to hold her ground against his; he was much larger and much, much taller than she was. Already, she could feel her hand numb from the force of the blow.
If there was one thing Shu had come to realise, however, it was that generally bigger opponents tended to be slower. So she placed her silent bet and made her decision, withdrawing her weapon before surging forward, letting her feet dance across the cobblestone floor with cat-like finesse as her arm came down again and again, forcing him to draw back. โUnfortunately, yes,โ she said with a slight smile, though her gaze remained cold as the arctic waters. One gash. A second. A third. A first gust of wind, then another. โIโm not a made-up rumour.โ
Aim for his carotid sinus, hit his solar plexus, target his median nerve. Incapacitate him.
Adrenaline roared in her ears as she watched the assured certainty in his eyes revert to incredulity from the slow, draining cuts and bruises that formed along his flanks, and she was about to catch his unawares once again as he stumbled back, losing his balance โ until she found her attention snapping over to the sound of a very familiar grunt, and heard something or someone hitting the ground with a loud thud. A specific name was on the tip of her tongue, until she heard the man speak, cutting her off. โThis isnโt the time for you to be worried about others, is it, now, miss?โ
It was only moments after that when Shu saw the world blur, but only after sheโd caught sight of a a jarring glint of silver, and the glimmer of dark red.
Rafael Edkaird
Listening was something the spider was good at. It didnโt matter what, exactly, he was listening to. He could be listening to the sound of water flowing through a mountain, or the sound of leaves rustling from a breeze, or the clip-clop of hooves against the cobblestone street, or an individual prattle on about their day, in which case heโd usually sit in front of them on their request. He didnโt know why he liked to keenly keep an ear out to catch any sound all around him โ perhaps it was partially what made him fit his role (sometimes, he simply liked to sit somewhere in the city, when the night air was cooler, and enjoy the faint sounds it had to offer). In a sense, he served as The Styxโs ear, so that was what he usually did and continued to do so now: he listened.
"All's fair, Vikhrov. You know what kind of game we're playing here. Maybe I'm not as honest as I used to be.โ
The words made him scrunch his face, just a little. Not honest as I used to be? Heโd served The Styx as its ear for a long time, and not once had he ever thought, whenever he was out on his job, that Ambroos had been โan honest man.โ Perhaps once he could have been, far back when heโd still lived with a mother and a father and ten other siblings, but as of recent? Not so much. Not really.
"But that doesn't mean I don't still understand that there are men and women out there, working these docks every day, who don't have the luxury to be as liberal with their forces as I do."
Still remaining silent, Rafael slowly rested the tips of his gloved fingers upon his left sleeve, where he could feel the sharp point of his dagger tentatively resting against his skin. He could feel tension stringing every part of his body as he steeled himself to fight, meticulously yet subconsciously focusing his attention on every little detail that occurred all around them. The cold fog rolled in like a parade, turning each and every one of them to silhouettes against its murky backdrop, and he drew in a small, quiet breath. Already he felt sharper and more wary of his surroundings, his gaze vigilant, yet steady.
"It appears we're going to have to do this the Ketterdamn-way. Aren't we?โ
Most likely, yes, he thought, letting his dark amber-brown eyes narrow, though the ends of his lips remained quirked. With both leadersโ and their pre-established resolve, there was no other way around the matter; all that was left to do was to settle things through less diplomatic, less placid options.
The crack of Lifenโs whip singled the start of it, and with it, everything seemed to explode all at once. Almost instantly, most of his peers seemed to dissolve into the fog, vanishing from sight. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Hartโs shadow fading underneath the vast mist, the sound of his footsteps melting into the ear-splitting crack of several gunshots (or whip). The spider was aware that he was referred as a mirage or an illusion or even a phantom from time to time, but for a moment, he silently questioned to no one in particular of who truly was a mirage: himself, or the leader of The Styx.
It was true โ he harboured no hard feelings for Hart, as his loyalty for the gang and its leader was something that had been proven a multiple amount of times, but there were times when heโd genuinely felt a creeping sense of foreboding uneasiness when he stared directly into the taller manโs single green eye. Like the time when he saw Hart standing in front of his window with one smooth hand gently resting on the windowsill, his back turned to the door as if he were watching the outside world. Heโd never been able to see what expression Hart made when his green eye was focused on the colossal city stretched across Kerch since his back was against the door, though when heโd turned around, despite his light greeting, his gaze had been vacant, and Rafael had felt like heโd been staring directly into the eye of a marionette of some higher entity that he did not recognise.
The pungent stench of gunpowder mixed in with the damp scent of the fog permeating through the clearing brought the spider back to reality, and he swivelled around when he heard Zamir hiss his name. "I can cover you, go."
Watching Zamir nudge his shotgun off his back, Rafael nodded his head, his dark eyes sharp and piercing, though his expression remained fairly easygoing, and a small spark of relief lit his gaze. He wasnโt going to lie: it was reassuring to have the actor covering for him, especially with the chaotic occurrences going all around them, including the pesky fog, which with his help would bend to their benefits, shrouding them instead of facing them as a major challenge. โIโm holding you to that, Zamir,โ he said with a grin before he paused very briefly, almost in hesitance before he let the back of his hand lightly brush against the actorโs sleeve, as if to catch his attention. โBe careful, okay?โ The spider didnโt wait for a response when he dove into the fog, his feet silent against the floor (not that it really mattered now), his movements deft as he drew out both of his daggers, his gloved hands tightly wrapped around their hilts. It didnโt take long for the back of a tall, scare-crow like silhouette to emerge, and he was just about to strike when he heard a familiar voice.
โHeads up!โ
Oh, Saints. Ducking with his eyes shut tight, Rafael opened his eyes after the burst of blinding white light to seeโฆ. fog. With his eyebrows furrowing together, he blinked his dark eyes. Whereโ
The spider spun around just in time to deflect a fist coming from his right flank with his elbow, and the surprising amount of massive force his opponent wielded knocked him over, causing his back to hit the streets. All the air seemed to be knocked out of Rafael, who set grit teeth together as he felt someone deliberately fall on top of him. His daggers were the only protection he had against the knife that was pressed against his own blades, and he was soon staring right up at the face of a haggard young man whose eyes were sullen, devoid of any emotion or light like those of a dead fish.
This man possessed a physique that resembled a scarecrow; he was scrawny and lanky and extremely tall, yet the power behind his arms seemed to match the strength of a burly, middle-aged man. Impossible, the flash bomb should have โโฆ Rafaelโs dark eyes widened a little when he saw the lips of this haggard man smile, revealing a row of crooked teeth. โYouโre not the only spider, Edkaird. Thought you caught me, did you?โ
It seemed that the man hadnโt spotted Zamir from the way he was acting โ perhaps it was due to the influence of the thick fog, which the actor himself manipulated. All of this White Crowโs focus, Rafael realised, was on him, and nothing else. He was clearly relishing on a victory that had not yet occurred. Rafael was careful not to let his gaze slip over to where he'd last seen Zamir; his gaze could allude the man's attention, and that was the last thing he needed. Saints, what had they done to this man? At least he could see certain emotions in Hartโs eye and expression, such as displeasure or contentment or amusement. This man simply felt like an empty vessel, like a taxidermied crow.
Zera Zeddrid
She heard the murderous cracking of a skull somewhere, only to find Killian. Only this time, instead of looking into the face of the large, shy man, she was looking into the face of a very bloody shy man, and believe it or not, those two things were a little different from each other. Not that she really cared, but it was something that caught her attention for a few more seconds every time she ran into him during a violent brawl such as this one.
She debated about staying silent but finally decided against it. If she stayed too quiet for too long and for some reason Killian mistook her for someone else, she could be caught unaware by the very tall man, and that was the last thing she wanted to get herself involved in. The idea of facing her own companions didnโt serve Zera too well, after all, despite what some individuals seemed to think. A savage โ a wild wolf whoโll tear anything up that stands in her way, friend or foe.
โHas a man passed by here with golden hair?โ She asked briskly, her accent a little more harshly pronounced tonight (just as it usually did whenever she was engaged in a fight) before she glanced down at the White Crow with the broken nose and scrunched her face a little at the sight. She stepped over the unconscious body and looked up so that her jagged gaze could meet those of his before halting in her tracks after hearing the heels of her boots click against the cobblestone floor. โAside from.. this one.โ
It seemed that they were the only ones here in this area of the clearing, because all was silent, and she, too, could only see the heavy fog. No one else seemed to be around, even if she could hear the sound of the brawl echoing all around herself. Irritated, Zera clucked her tongue and scowled. A little earlier, when the crack of Lifenโs whip had initiated The Styx to surge forward to meet The White Crows, sheโd managed to land a shot on one of Ambroosโ menโs shoulder, near where his heart lay, but heโd run off somewhere after heโd realised that heโd challenged the wrong opponent who was armed with many, many guns and pistols.
Normally, there was no such thing as a โmissโ for Zera Zeddrid. But tonight, as sheโd been presuming earlier, the darkness combined with the fog made it difficult to catch the mice who moved quickly, darting from one area to another to avoid her bullets. If the weather hadnโt gotten in the way, she was certain that she wouldโve been able to shoot all of Ambroosโ men down from a distance. She wouldโve made sure that she had so that the rest of the gang didnโt even have to lift a finger.
The man sheโd nearly shot down had been a tall man with a mess of golden hair sitting on his pretty little head with round, blue eyes. The look of innocence that had been there on his face hadnโt fazed her, though, nor had she been fooled by it; it was clearly a guise, and one that he used deceptively for his own personal gain. The shadow in his gaze told her that much โ once you lived in the crooked streets of Ketterdamn for a long while, it became easier to tell who was deceitful and who was not, especially those who made it a little too obvious in a raw, physical dispute such as this one. Heโd had a few throwing knives with him, and it seemed that he was one of the younger members of The White Crow. The next time she saw him, sheโd kill him. A hunter did not abandon its prey half-dead.
Her dark, dark nearly-black eyes pulled away from Killian when she pinned the wrong end of her barrel in the direction of an approaching shadow. Whoever this was, they seemed oddly a little unsteady on their feet. โWe have company, Killian,โ she stated simply without looking him, though she did inch a little closer so that she stood near him.
Her narrowed eyes, however, widened a little when she saw the silhouette finally emerge with her tired golden eyes glimmering. Chernyaev? Lowering her pistol, Zera stood a little straighter as she let the realization register within her head. The slightly younger womanโs white shirt was decorated with flecks of red, though for the most part, she seemed unharmed. She seemed to eye Zera and Killian briefly before something that bordered relief lit her gaze, as if she'd just realized that they were both standing and breathing and bloody, but alive. One of her shoes were missing, though, and her usually smooth, loosened hair was disheveled, as if sheโd taken a casual stroll through a tornado. To this, Zera raised an eyebrow. What the hell?
As if to read her expression, the Shu Han woman smiled after her gaze rested on both Killian and Zera, but only just a little. โIโll explain later, if youโre interested.โ
Fair enough. Hart Vikhrov
Ambroosโs curse was enough for Hart to understand that the man was nearby. In fact, very nearby. Even with the turmoil that encompassed him, he remained unruffled, and each of his steps remained methodical. All around him, he could hear the sound of gunshots and the eerie screech of metal against metal, which was not a sound he enjoyed listening to, though there was hardly any choice when you were out on the streets participating in gang fights such as this one. There was a faint scent of gunpowder and fog and blood that seemed to cling in the air, which he gave no second thought to after acknowledging once. Thereโd been far more exacerbated circumstances heโd been caught up in where so much blood had been shed to the point heโd been stepping on what seemed like a pool of the thick, scarlet substance.
His green eye turned into a narrowed slit at the thought. Faintly, briefly, he saw the vivid image of a discarded corpse in an alleyway, and he swore he could still smell a pungent scent of its limp form permeate the entire area. Itโd taken him everything to stop himself from retching. A manโs face flashed past his eye. He had a narrow and angular face, which seemed to be crafted entirely with nothing but jagged lines. The man had cruel, intelligent gray eyes and inky black hair. He was handsome, but ruggedly so, and the pernicious smile upon his pale lips had been cold enough to make any man bend their knee all the while sending violent chills down oneโs spine.
The colors of that image in his mind seemed to shift to Ambroosโs face, and Hart soon closed his one eye briefly, in thought. Thereโd been far more worse circumstances heโd faced, indeed.
Perhaps thereโd be some whoโd emerge injured from his own crew, but he had a feeling that this was not a fight they were going to lose.
His jaw tightened a little as he took another step forward, this time with his pistol held in front of himself. If only Ambroos would withdraw his men, he thought with a small, exasperated (somewhat dramatically irked) sigh. For some reason, he found his memories flickering back to the sight of the Grisha girl that had been with The White Crowโs leader. Admittedly, heโd felt relief upon noticing that she was most likely not a Heartrender, but it was true that she could still pose a threat. He was no fool, and he wasnโt willing to take any chances, no matter how little they appeared to be; heโd seen what Grishas were capable of doing, and if there was one thing he learned from recruiting three of them in his own gang, even, it was that they were not to be underestimated.
Now then, where exactly are you?
~
( i love it so much <3 it seems like you had a fun time drawing it, too, which is just awesome
oh haha thatโs my search history, too, when iโm drawing peeps c;
tyty!!
whatchu apologising for, saph, thereโs no need. your fight sequences look great 00: forgive me if mineโs a little choppy especially towards the end, though ;; itโs so late rn and i typed the last bit out while p much half asleep
edit: also pasty son of a sow <<<<<<<< iโm using that insult )
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Post by Deleted on Aug 15, 2017 10:44:29 GMT -5
Ambroos De Veen
The world became chaos in the space of about five seconds. One second; He was drawing his gun, planning to blow Vikhrov's insides out, and stamp down whatever little coupย d'etatย this tiny gang was planning with the big dogs. Two seconds; The gun was pretty much out, he knew his men would be moving forwardsย now. Three seconds; Searing pain in his hand and a very loud crack breaking the air. Four seconds; Gun dropped, curse uttered, people from both side rushing forwards now to meet each other. Five seconds; The fog was suddenly much, much denser, and everyone near him had vanished. In their places, gunshots, punches, and grunts had risen up and flooded the foggy space around him.ย ย
He clutchedย his bleeding hand to his chest and quickly stooped to retrieve his fallen revolver. Backing up quickly, Ambroos put some space between himself and the last place he'd seen the rival gang, before the world had gone grey. He chanced a look at the back of his hand, and was furious, but not surprised, to see it had been split open right down the back, and his blood was pumping out fast and dark. He hadn't been shot, that was certain. That meant the cracking noise had been had to have been,ย that little b-
The world to his left lit up with fire for a briefย moment, undoubtedlyย that little brat's Grisha powers. She better not be going at willy nilly, tiring herself out. The fog was lit up, a warm cream colour, and the outlines of people were thrown against the mist. The fire vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and the black silhouettes went withย it, leaving him alone again, in the very cold dark.ย
He needed to know where Vikhrov was. Gangs these days were hiveminds; shut down the leader, and the rest of them split up like wet paper. His gun was fully loaded, and he had a wicked looking dagger on his belt, more thanย enough to put someone down in the past, and tonight wouldn't be any different. Perhaps the fog was a good thing, he may be able to use it to his advantage. Sure, Ambroos didn't know where Vikhrov was, but Vikhrov didn't know where Ambroos was, and it could stay that way. The thickness of the fog was disconcerting, he didn't want to accidentallyย shot one of his own men (but if it happened, it happened. ย De Veen was certainย the unlucky sod would understand in the morning.) Moving quietly forward, the mist parting around him slightly as he went, Ambroos felt very alive, more alive thanย he had in awhile. It would be thrilling, to get rid of such a troublesome bunch of little pricks and put his own gangย back on the map.
Ambroos De Veen was by no means perfect, but he was also by no means a total idiot. He knew that the White Crows weren't what they used to be, and though somewhereย in the back of his mind he knew this was largelyย his fault, he ignored that. He wasn't about to ignore doing somethingย about it, no, not anymore, not tonight. This petty rivalry ended tonight, so did The Styx, and so did a lifetime of envying the north docks. Yes, this was the night.
Was it night? For a second he doubted himself, after a briefย whistlingย and someone yelling, "Heads up!" (if he'd bothered to take their messages, he would've known Lifen's voice without needing to see her face by now), and then the sun exploded.
That's what it felt like, anyway, to an unexpectant flash bomb victim. He faintly heard glass shattering as the projectile hit the cobblestones, and then a stunningly bright light filled the world, and he closed his eyes one second too late to avoid the worst of it. He staggered, moaning, pressing his uninjuredย hand into his sockets, trying to bloat out the phosphenesย and the burning whiteness. He couldย feel theย blood on his left hand begin to soak his shirt's cuff, and he was vaguelyย reminded of the night his own base had been bombed. There'd been more fire and brimstone, less exploding star, the world had gone blood orange and boiling hot and they'd been taken completely unawares. It was not a sensation he liked to remember.ย
He forced his eyes open, trying to utilize the lats of the dying light to see the silhouettes of people again, but his vision was blurred beyond belief. He simply staggered forward, taking his hand from his eyes and holdingย his gun out in front ofย him, ready for anything. Hopefully.ย
โถย ย Lifen Aaksterโถ
There was a time in her life when Lifen would've resented being rescued by someone like Killian, but that time was not when her actual life was in actual danger, and it certainly wasn't right now. She had a bit of a limp, it hurt like hell on her back to walk let alone run right now, and she could feel the right side of her face swelling and bruising. Not a very pleasant sensation. Still, black eyes and the like were essential for the morning after big fights like this. It payed to show off some impressive (but not too impressive) injuries to any curious parties to who doubt what had happened. It looked really good on her as A) the second in command and part time bar keep, who was meant to have good stories to tell and  an uncontrollable flirt who happened to sort of suit a split lip. She could make it work. Hart, on the other hand, not that he wasn't very handsome, was meant to look presentable. He was the face of The Styx, and he was supposed to be untouchable. He wasn't, of course, but they had their own way of dealing with that. A certain absent Grisha who was undoubtedly listening to the riot from all the way in little Ravka, tutting and shaking her head. She didn't know what she was missing. Lifen skidded to a stop, crouching beside a wooden dock, careful not to get too close to the edge. She could laugh off a black eye, but falling into the ocean? That was something certain members of the gang wouldn't let her forget in a hurry. She flipped her bag open and rummaged around until she grasped the familiar shape of a flash bomb. She grinned to herself in the dark and planted a quick kiss on the glass bobble, before tossing in over her shoulder and yelling, " Heads up!" As per usual, it split the darkness open when it crashed into the ground and she turned her face away from light, tucking her head into her body. She'd nearly blinded herself when she made one for the first time, and almost burnt down the Nightjar while she was at it (as of now, she had a little shed out the back that was falling apart anyway.)ย She counted to ten in her head and then gingerly opened her eyes, raising her head and wincing at the pain in her neck. Glancing around, she turned back to her bag, squinting in the darkness, wishing either Zamir or Zera, whichever of them was on fog duty, would ease up a little, and let the big yellow moon to it's job. Lifen's fingers closed around a grenade just as the side of her body experienced a dramatic change in temperature.ย " Saints above!" She cursed, skidding to the side as quickly as she could, barely saving her face and body from being burnt to a crisp (Her suit, not so lucky). ย The little fire Grisha had found her, and was waving those flames about with a little too much abandon for even this vivacious demo expert. Now, Lifen was off the stones completely and onto the wooden docks. The flammable wooden docks. Great, just grreeeaaat. But hey, if this kid was working for De Veen, how smart could she be? It was dark, and the wood was wet from the fog (Lifen officially redacted her earlier statement about wishing the fog would ease up), maybe this kid wasn't going to burn her alive and leave her to drown? The Grisha kid leant forward, " These docks are our's!" Her voice was ridiculously high pitched, like she was fighting fear or just very excited, and she waved her arms, but didn't shoot any flames just yet. She was panting, like those little exertions had winded her. Lifen wasn't overly sympathetic, seeing as she could smell her hair crisping up. ย She could make a black eye work, but a bald head was a brave move, and she wasn't about to chance it.ย " Oh yeah?" She reached down for her whip, refined on her belt, " Then where's your name on it?" Childish yeah, but who cared? ย Looks like this little imp couldn't talk and fight at the same time, let's keep her chatting.ย She pulled a face, confused and annoyed, " What? How old are you?" She didn't sound very impressed, which, in all truth, was fair, she supposed. She actually even got more annoyed, "T his is serious! Is this a joke to you?" ย A tiny voice in Lifen's head whispered, don't poke the bear, just do your job, that bear has fire powers, be sensible, but she could barely hear it over a very tempting voice screaming POKE THE DAMN BEAR!!!! POKE IT!!!!
" Um, yeah, actually it is." She grinned, ignoring the pain that caused, " Real hilarious. Not as funny as that time your mother invited me to stay the night, though." That, plus the nonchalant shrug, was enough to distract the White Crows girl for a few moment, long enough for her to raise her whip again and crack it out. She barely grazed her, too far away, and it was too dark now, but that was enough to make her shriek in panic and back up, giving Lifen the time she needed to run past her, getting out of her dock deadend and vanish into the fog. She pulled the grenade from earlier out of her bag and threw it to her left, not sure of what to say as a warning. She had no idea where anyone was anymore, and they didn't know her location, so what could- her train of thought was cut off by the boom that shook the ground and sent gravel flying at her. Well, no point worrying about it now. Someone was screaming, but it didn't sound like a familiar scream, ย so as far as she was concerned, her conscience was clear.ย โฆย Zamir Nejenย โฆ Rafael didn't waste any time, and the niftyย little guy was off into the fog nearly too fast for Zamir to followย him. He couldn't stay too close behind him, ofย course, that would ruin the point of having a spider if a taller guy with a big gun walked one step behind him. ย He didn't have the skill to part the fog while he chased after Rafael, not with a gun in his hand, and a tiny part of him wondered if there were Grisha in Ravka somewhereย who could. Ravka was the ultimate place to be Grisha after all, and the Little Palaceย was the bestย place in Ravka. Hart usually teamedย Zamir and Zera up on nights like this, did they do that over there as well? Did Squallers and Tidemakers go hand-in-hand? He realised he was thinking about nothing to distract himself from the fight at hand, and in the process, seemed to have lost his very important package.ย
Oh no.ย
In a small burst of panic, he opened his mouth to call the other man's name, but stopped himself. The odd gunshot rang out, and he could hear someone punching someone else withย great vigor - giving away his position would be a huge, monumental mistake. ย He swiftly turnedย his head from side to side, but was pulled out of his gradually building panic when he heard Lifen yell something. He didn't hear what exactly, but he knew enough to shut his eyes instantly and brace himself for some kind of blast. When he opened his eyes, the brightย light was fading , but it lasted long enough for him to spot a familiarย outline in the fog, and dash in it's direction. ย Saints bless the flash bombs.ย
The closer he got, the more noises he picked up on; grunts and slams, which normally had another connotationย for Zamir, but then he heard metal againstย metal and snapped out of whatever weird daydream he was going to slip into. Rafael was going toe-to-toe with some other guy, a weird looking lanky thing, "Thought you caught me, did you?โ
He hadn't seen Zamir, which was no big surpriseย seeing as he'd ย lost Rafael five seconds ago, ย so Zamir just raised his gun to his shoulder, waiting for a chance. He couldn'tย fire blindly, he'd most certainly hit Rafael, something he wanted to avoid more thanย anything, ย but the longer he stood here the moreย vulnerableย both of them became.ย
Maybe, at another time, Zamir would've let him know he had a gun to his head, and let this man make up his own mind, but Ketterdamn had wringed the Suli man dry of any sort of that kind of sympathy. This man was here tonight, trying to damndest to seriously injure his friend, and Zamir wasn't going to let him speak for himself.ย ย Second chances had no place in the Barrel.ย
Rafael ducked down at one point, and Zamir took his shot, his ear ringing from the explosive Bang! and the last of the clove smell clinging to him being washed out by the new scent of gunpowder. The kickback hurt like hell, and for a terrifying moment he'd thought he'd missed, but then the scarecrow looking fellow feel backwards, and when Zamir looked again, the damp ground was speckled with something dark and coppery.ย
He closed the gap between himself and Rafael, "You good?" No point admitting he'd briefly lost visual on him, right? He was fine, for sure, "Or do I have to shot him again? Because I will, I've got like, four boxes of spare bullets."ย
Corpse humor was bad karma, something he would've been strapped for back in his firstย home, but he wasn't in his first home anymore, and pretty much everything flew in Ketterdamn. So long as it was marketable, of course.
โฉ Killian Manusย โฉHe jumped out of his skin when a thick Ravkan voice spoke up behind him, โHas a man passed by here with golden hair?โ and he spun round, already knowing it would be Zera Zeddridย behind him, but still needingย to check. Zeddrid was cool, collected, and almost a little suave. Just the sort of person that made Killian feel awkwardย without trying, and as if on cue, he began to blush at the thought of his bloody, panting appearance. "Um," Oh yes, very intelligent, "Well, um-" He hadn't gotten a very good look at anyone, really. Even now, he could barely remember the face of the man who he'd just fought, though he could barely the song his mother used to sing at the Samhain Ball verbatimย right now. Wasn't that the way.
If his life had depended on it, Killian couldn'tย have told Zeddrid what any of the White Crows looked like, not even Ambroos De Veen. His mind was doing that thing where, when pressured, it just failed him, time and time again. The harder he tried to concentrate, the less he knew about his own life,ย until he was doubting his own accent (Am I from the Wandering Isle? Am I?)
She was just standing there, looking dangerous, waiting for him to speak, and it suddenly became impossibleย to meet her eyes, so his own dropped to the floor, as they were want to do, " I- well, um, I didn't getย a very good look at anyone. He," Killian gesturedย to the unconsciousย man on the ground, "He was the first personย I've saw." He knew that grammar wasn't right, he just knew it, but his mind was completely gone by now. He felt ridiculous, blood dripping down his face, off his chin by this point, meekly gesturingย with huge hands embroideredย by bronze knuckle dusters.ย
Zeddrid was Grisha too, and that made him nervous. No point denying it, it made everyone Kaelish nervous. He also felt very very guilty, as if the brutal, gory traditionย the Wandering Isle had around Grisha people were suddenly his fault. He couldn't see himself partaking in one, and he really couldn't see anyone from his home being smart or strong enough to capture Zeddrid of all people. His own folk really were quite bumbling compared to this city, far too honest and old fashioned. They'd go in for someoneย like Zeddrid and come out in pieces, if they even came out at all. He knew Grisha couldn't read minds, but he still felt shame wash through his body and he nervously wiggled his big feet.
The sniper turned to face whoever was coming as quick as a flash, and Killianย felt an untamable surge of relief. Yes! Someone to punch! He could do that! Anything was easier thanย talking to a girl, especiallyย a girl with an awful lot of guns. That relief evaporated when Shuย Chernyaev appeared out of the mist, looking worse thanย him, at least. ย Great, another girl with a dangerous weapon. And she was always so nice. Somehow that made things worse. (Well, 'nice' in Ketterdamn terms, and that was basically anyone who wasn't stabbing you. Incredibleย how this city could lower one's standards.) ย Still, his mother hadn't raised him to be rude, and he gave a small wave in greeting, hopefully that would cover the whole 'glad you're OK' routine.ย
There was a terrible, almost crunching, boom along the ground and Killian's knees shook as he took the bruntย of the blast unawares. It was undoubtedlyย Lifen again, but she could've warned them, somehow. Maybe a whistle? Would've been nice. Someone started yelling, obviouslyย too close to the bomb. Unlucky. "Could that, um, be your-" He waved in the direction of the screaming, "Your guy? Maybe?" It was directed at Zeddrid, though he kept his eyes trained on the mist ahead. It faintly occurredย to him that this might be the longestย conversation he'd had in about a year, and it was all the more embarrassingย that it was full of stammering and wholly unintelligent. He could only pray it was too dark to see how red his face had gone, ย as the combination of his hair and skin tone meant it could really light up.ย
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Post by carmine. on Aug 16, 2017 11:55:51 GMT -5
Shu Chernyaev
Holy s/// were the only two words that Shu could really think when she soon found herself facing the wrong end of a dark, dark barrel, though she at least had the slimmest reassurance that the sharp end of her blade was up and against this assaulterโs throat. A little more pressure on their finger on their part and she would have a hole through the back of her head, but with one flick of her wrist, whoever this was, theyโd be dead as well, down with the grizzled-jawed man who lay still down by her feet. The man by her feet wasnโt dead โ not necessarily. A hole had been cut in his thigh (and as a result, the blade of her sword remained a brilliant hue of dark red), but he was merely unconscious, for now, anyway, after a blow to his nape using the hilt of her sole weapon.
Long ago, when sheโd begun to work for The Styx, sheโd learned mercy from a particular someone, and it seemed that despite living most of her life in Ketterdamn, she hadnโt yet bent her knee to its toxicated effects. He would live, and she wasnโt nor had been planning to murder him, especially since he was now an unarmed and unconscious man. Surely he had people waiting for him as well; maybe even a significant other or even a daughter or son. Hell, she didn't know (nor would she ever understand why some individuals chose to stick with a brute out for blood like this), but there was that chance that with every life she took, somewhere, in a place she could not see, a family would be left stranded, and this man wasnโt an exception.
Interesting, but foolish, she could hear Hart say in her head with a โgraciousโ smile lacing his lips. Your mercy will be the end of you, Chernyaev. Itโll serve you well to keep that in mind.
It was foolish, yes, she understood that much, but a small part of the swords fighter hoped to remain as far as she could from a life constructed of facades, living as a materialistic exterior shell that only served to attract more corruption and disillusion. How many men and women had she seen strutting around the street, becoming a symbol of an opulent, lavish, yet violent idealism of this city and its secrets? Money, killing, targets, elimination, blood, more blood, women, men, and superficial power โ the individuals sheโd seen had been concerned with nothing but that. Killing unnecessarily without meaning seemed to bring so many individuals one step closer to the madness โ the swirling lunacy. And for the time being, apart from bemusing her and winding her with a fist to the side, he hadnโt stepped over the line that necessarily required Shu to draw her sword across his throat.
Perhaps one day, when her debt had been filled to The Styx, sheโd find that special someone everyone seemed to literally gush over and move far away to travel to every last bit of existing land while avoiding Ketterdamn. It was a small wish of hers, but no matter how ephermal of a mirage it seemed, it was one Shu couldnโt quite shake off. Maybe she refused to brush it off because it was nothing but that: a simple, small, impractical dream. In these streets, that seemed to be the only thing left to look forward to. And admittedly there was a little bit of drinking to look forward to after a job well done but that was besides the point.
โHavenโt I said before that your mercy will be the end of you, Chernyaev?โ
Glimpsing over her shoulder, Shuโs golden eyes widened a little when she was left staring into the face of Hart Vikhrov, who just so happened to be the assaulter holding the fine end of the gun at her head. His single, piercing hazel eye seemed to glint with what could have been interpreted as an ingenious smile. Or a guileful smirk. It didnโt matter; it was simply Vikhrov-like, and that was all there was to know.
โYou had the chance to behead me, yet you chose not to, again. Youโre starting to concern me, Shu โ what if I was an enemy?โ
โIโm not all that certain whether if,โ said Shu after a short bit as she slowly, gingerly considering the somewhat figurative dent in her side the man had made, rose back to her feet, wiping the streak of blood off her blade with a deft swiper of her wrist (and a long, long sigh), โIโm supposed to be impressed or concerned about your whole โI know theyโre not going to kill me because I know my strongly supported assumption is correctโ attitude. I could have killed you.โ
โBut I knew you wouldnโt.โ
The swords fighter raised an eyebrow. โBecause your assumptions are always correct?โ
โBecause my assumptions are always correct.โ Before Shu could really consider stabbing Hart, he spoke, this time with a little more curiosity. โWhat happened to your hair?โ
Shu had been on the verge of asking what he meant, but she soon noticed that the ends of her black hair remained shaggy and uneven, terribly mismatched from each other. With a subtle note of realization, she glanced down at the man sprawled out by her feet before her lips lightly curved to form the smallest hint of a smile. โIt appears that someone got the better of me before he went down,โ she replied before turning her gaze back to his sole, cold eye, which seemed to practically glow as he looked (literally) down at the unconscious man. โBut that's not really what you came to tell me.โ
โYou aren't wrong. Relay on the message that Zera and Zamir have my permission to remove the fog.โ
In other words, thought Shu, translating his words in her head. With years of listening to him speak, it became easier to decipher what he truly meant behind his words. Kindly ask them both to get rid of this damn thing. Weโre done here.
Red Wine night wasn't looking too far off for all of them, anymore.
Zera Zeddrid
โUm," she heard from Killian, who โ if she was seeing things correctly through the mist seemed to be blushing? His brilliantly scarlet hair gave the hue of his cheeks away due to the emphasis it seemed to put, but she could've been mistaken โ looked quite nervous, indeed. "He was the first person I've saw."
Silently, Zera could feel her eyebrow rise as she listened to his hesitant and fractured sentences. Not that she wasnโt thinking anything bad of the gentle giant, really, but had he lost his tongue? How did these Kerch individuals phrase the sentence, again? Cat got your tongue? Even so, the last sentence he'd uttered had almost caused the corners of her lips to tug into and involuntarily smirk โ because, come on, she couldn't deny that it was amusing and almost even endearing to watch the alpine man stumble over his own words; she wasn't completely all frigid ice and stone and seeing him like this did make some of the tension in her shoulders loosen up a bit โ but she managed to keep her face (somewhat) straight and stoically let her gaze travel over their bleak surroundings.
It made sense that Killian hadn't been able to get a look or even catch sight of another man โ the thick, gray blanket made it near to impossible for anyone to see clearly what was happening, and Zera realized that if he had seen someone, that blonde White Crow sheโd missed earlier wouldโve most likely joined the already-unconscious man splayed out against the floor with a pool of coppery red encircling him. Clucking her tongue once more at the thought with a small furrow forming between her brows, she slowly massaged her temples. Hunting these White Crows down in the midst of the fog was truly like rekindling her memory of fighting against a particular gang in the dark, when no shafts of light had reached them through the small, dusty windows of the vacant building sheโd been within. Zeraโs hawk-like eyes narrowed sharply. Is Hart still refusing to say anything?
It was then her sharpshooter's eye caught the slight tension rolling off of Killian, and she briefly found herself wondering whether if it was being caused from her presence or because of the minuscule plight theyโd been thrusted into. If her knowledge of the world outside of Ravka wasnโt all scrambled just yet, she thought sheโd vaguely heard someone say that the Kaelish were not in the slightest bit comfortable with a Grisha in their presence. Perhaps it was just her mixing up different people as she usually did with smaller matters, though โ sheโd done that more than once, mixing up individuals and their histories even going as far to refer Lifen as Shu and Shu as Lifen and Hart as Killian and Killian as Zamir and Rafael as Zamir more than twice (yes, it was confusing, and yes, she really wasn't the best with remembering anything that didnโt come off as significant to her). In the beginning when sheโd first worked under Hart, their names had meant very little, and anything that meant very little to Zeddrid usually carelessly slipped past her mind.
When the ground trembled to the extent Zera thought that Ketterdamn would collapse right there and then, she glanced over at the others and found that they seemed to be thinking similarly in the same way; someone in particular had caught their unawares, and she had a sneaking suspicion that there was only one fighter who was capable of it. Listening to the huge boom was almost like a catharsis โ sometimes, just sometimes, as sheโd spoken earlier with Zamir, she silently wished that Kerch would be swept in a turmoil that would burn it down to ashes. This cacophonous chaos was one of the closest sheโd get to seeing, or at least feeling, the damn country blow. Then, she heard someone yelling (or hollering) and only listened for a short while longer before Killian spoke once more. โCould that, um, be your โ your guy?โ
The voice sounded a tad bit too high-pitched to belong to the starry-eyed slim, golden-haired youth sheโd seen before, but instead of letting that explanation escape her lips (because it was too long and Zera really wasnโt up for speaking at the moment, especially with all that was occurring around themselves) she smiled her rugged sharpshooterโs smile and leaned her weight on her right foot. โPerhaps.โ
โZera,โ she heard from her side, only to see Shuโs gaze resting on her, the gold in her eyes seemingly brighter than before, the slight curve of her lips subtly wolfish. โI almost forgot to remind you and Zamir that Hart finally said yes.โ
The sharpshooter blinked once, then twice. On this field, Lifen had been pulling a lot of work with her bombs โ and so had Killian, Shu, and most likely Zamir and Rafael as well (she wouldnโt say, but she understood that both of them were very capable individuals, and sneaky ones that that). Against a gang with eight members, knocking or greatly wearing one down fit in as an accomplishment, and seeing by the fact that Hart had given an order, it seemed that the numbers had been withered down to the point the fog now only became an obstacle rather than a partially beneficial factor.
โFinally,โ said the Squaller as she took a step forward and raised her hands, her short, pale hair flying loose behind herself. The feral gleam in her gaze was wild and unrestrained. โItโs about time.โ
Rafael Edkaird
Aside from the adrenaline that roared in his ears, Rafael heard something that almost numbed all of his senses, and soon, he smelled the sharp burn of gunpowder. Then, after a moment, the sharp, metallic scent of blood followed. When he raised his hand to the little bit of light that seemed to hover above the thick fog as if to check that he wasnโt drifting in some alternate hell, with his back and head still against the cobblestone floor, he saw that it was smeared with a very bright, coppery, and unnatural shade of red. The still-warm and brilliant hue seemed to coil around his thin wrist like a small serpent, traveling down his arm and staining the edge of his sleeve.
Moments later, still a little stunned by the vehement bang, he soon heard a familiar voice from above. โYou good?โ
Am I good? The spider found himself asking himself as he hesitantly rose with his gloved palm pressed against the rough stone beneath himself to support his weight, his blood-stained hand bare without his usual dark glove. Itโd been lost during the scuffle, and when he glanced down, he noticed that it was in the middle of the oozing substance pooling around the unmoving, glassy-eyed White Crow. His gloves were valuable, but he didn't think they were so valuable that heโd retrieve one from river of blood. Smoothly, carelessly, Rafael lightly hooked his slender index finger around the end of his other clean black glove and tugged it off before discarding it down onto the grimy, city floor.
Without answering Zamir just yet (he was getting to that), he crouched down, trying not to grimace at the horrid pain in his spine, before he gently closed the static manโs glazed blue eyes using his two, pale index fingers. The man had nearly killed him, yes, but life was still life, wasnโt it? No matter what shape or form they came in. I couldโve been in his position.
โWell,โ he started without turning around to face Zamir just yet, his eyes still resting on the corpse down below his bent knee. โIโm alive.โ When Rafael turned around to meet the actorโs different coloured eyes, he had a slight smile that danced across his lips โ one of grim pleasure mixed perhaps with a pang of sadness, though the subtle, even-tempered smile in his gaze was unmistakable, and it seemed that whatever poignancy had existed in his orbs faded the moment they emerged. โI think that counts as good.โ
Listening to Zamirโs next words, Rafael only breezily flicked a lock of his pale hair behind his ear, his eyes twinkling with a silvery and good-natured smile. โI understand that youโre upset you almost lost your one and only phenomenal spider, dear Zamir,โ he said non-seriously with an almost daintily coy tilt of his head, โbut letโs not go wasting bullets, shall we? Otherwise, when we meet Hart, weโre going to be joining himโโ he then indicated the motionless White Crow with his surprisingly easygoing, yet sharp gaze, โโsoon, and from what I remember from our earlier conversation, we still have Red Wine night to enjoy.โ
When the spider rose to his feet, however, his expression briefly crumpled from a wince, and he nearly sank back down on his knee while holding his upper left side. Saints, the man had gotten him good during the rough scuffle; the White Crowโs small victories would remain as dark, violet splotches across his skin that wouldnโt fade for a long while. Terrific.
Then, after drawing in a fortifying breath, Rafael looked up, and realized that somewhere, somehow, a gust had picked up, and the fog had become a torrent of air whipping across his skin, stunning him with icy needles of cold. The steadily forming twister alone wouldnโt be able to lift the heavy blanket of gray, though โ there was one other strength Zera would need in order to accomplish her objective.
โAnd I think that,โ with a barely noticeable curl of his lips, the spider let his gaze fall on Zamir, โthatโs your signal.โ Hart Vikhrov
He watched as the swords fighter raised an eyebrow. โBecause your assumptions are always correct?โ
โBecause my assumptions are always correct.โ
With his hand still wrapped around his finely tuned pistol, he let his thoughts roam back a few moments earlier (a part of him kept his mind off of how scary Shuโs smile seemed at the moment, goodness it looked like she was ready to murder him. But he hadn't said anything wrong, had he?), when heโd inevitably heard his second in command facing off against someone whoโd sounded a little too young and a little too feminine to be any of the walking, remarkably delightful hunks Ambroos had brought with him tonight.
โThese docks are ourโs!โ
โOh yeah? Then whereโs your name on it?โ
Heโd almost stopped and massaged his temples at the time. Oh, Lifen. Despite the pandemonium that encircled him, though, the leader of The Styx couldnโt deny the fact that heโd felt a twinge of genuine amusement. Just a little, though โ he wasnโt going to admit just exactly how much heโd been pleasantly entertained to hear the words coming from her. It been around that time the thick fog all around themselves had been illuminated with a creamy hue, undoubtedly the work of the Inferni, and soon enough, the Earth beneath him moved with such tremor he thought perhaps Kerch would cave-in.
The little child wasnโt a Heartrender, and judging by how the conversation had spiralled down to Lifenโs somewhat nonchalant "Real hilarious. Not as funny as that time your mother invited me to stay the night, though,โ then the defeaning boom and scream following soon afterwards, she didnโt seem to carry an explosive (no puns intended) amount of power as of now with her given age, and if she had before, now that strength would be reduced. At least, sheโd been injured somewhere โ it didnโt seem likely sheโd come out of that explosion utterly unscathed. Good. That was one of the things they needed to happen for their benefit. If she still had the energy to move, someone โ it didnโt matter who โ would most likely be able to immobilise her.
He glanced down at the unconscious man below Shuโs feet briefly before he spoke with a small suggestion laced in his words, and watched as she silently vanished behind the clouds of monotone color. And now, he was making his way towards, with the slow, steady disappearance of the cloak that had veiled them to a different, independent area of the docks, one of the last remaining silhouettes he saw standing, pistol glimmering in his hand. It didnโt matter if this was Ambroos or not โ any last remaining silhouettes would be dispatched of. The rest, he knew, were either left as an inert body on the floor, or knocked senseless till they could not stand, even if their lives had not been torn from them.
When he saw the ground stretched endlessly shrouded in mist before his feet, he noticed large dots of scarlet mixing together to create several puddles of blood, separated, leading him to a specific silhouette shaped just as heโd been imagining, all the angles and lines of the shadow perfectly corresponding to the image in his head. The figure seemed to be stumbling around a little with a hand pressed to their face, though their arms firmly held a weapon that he could only interpret clearly as a gun.
Found you.
โYouโre not going to get anywhere by eagerly holding your gun out in front of you, love,โ he said, his voice level as he stood with his own pistol aimed directly at the back of the manโs neck, his one eye narrowed, even as the corners of his lips remained curled upward. โPut the gun down, Ambroos. Do we need to risk more casualties to prove a fight that's already been finished?โ For a temporary, fleeting moment, the harsh light in his eye seemed to soften, but it was very, very ephermal. โI mightโve respected you once, when I first heard of you, so even though youโve given me more than enough reason to, Iโd prefer it if I didnโt have to put a hole through your head.โ
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Post by Deleted on Aug 18, 2017 10:44:20 GMT -5
โถย ย Lifen Aaksterโถ
She'd been chased out of her nook by the docks, but by this stage in her professional career, Lifen was an expert nook locator. She scrambled away from the fire Grisha, limp more pronounced now after crouching, and was glad of the anonymity ย of the fog. She could hide here for days, weeks- it was gone. A huge wind picked up, blowing her tightly secured hair out of place and lashing at her poor bloody face, and Lifen closed her eyes to it. Zera. Looks like Hart was wrapping things up on his end, if the order had gone out already. And she'd only gotten to let off two bombs!! Unfair. When she opened her eyes, the fog had vanished, and she was left exposed. Struggling to look like this was all according to plan, Lifen glanced around her, ready to be roasted alive by the kid Ambroos had adopted from the sun, ย but felt a guilty wave of relief to note that she too, had vanished. Looks like she'd gotten her better with the whip then she'd first guessed.ย
Now that the fog was gone, she could clearly observe the carnage around her. There were bodies scattered about, but no familiar silhouettes were on the ground. She could spot Killian a mile away, and reckoned the person with the gleaming metal was going to be either Shu or Zera. Either way, they were alright. She couldn't spot Rafael, but that was no biggie, she wasn't meant to be able to spot Rafael. She also noted, with a hefty tinge of pride, the dent her last bomb had left in the ground. She slowly approached it to give it a bit of further inspection, hands on her hips like she was surveying a land expanse of land she'd just bought. Yes, these were their docks she'd dented, but everything worth having had a few wears and tears in it, right? The stones in the middle of the blast had been completely shattered, and the ones on the outer rim were splattered with blood.ย
She raised her eyes to the person who'd been caught in the blast, who had stopped screaming and seemed to have passed out, clutching the end of what used to be their leg. Tragic. She'd have to make a note of the bomb's abilities on the human form later, and take it into account next time she chucked one. The flash bombs were her specialty, but these little grenades were new, and tonight had been a crash course for them and her. It was callous, and cold, to have such a detached view on the damage she'd caused to this human being, but Lifen's life didn't have space for regrets and worries. They were on opposite sides of a gang war, and his gang had tried to ambush her less than half an hour ago.
The bells of a nearby clock tower rang out again. Exactly a half hour ago, actually. ย Time flew when you were having fun. She got a little closer to the unconscious man and noted that he probably wouldn't die from blood loss, because the heat of the blast had seared together his wound. He may die from shock, or pain, and he'd never work for the White Crows again (though looking at the number of unmoving figures on the ground... maybe Ambroos wouldn't be so picky with who stayed), but there were worse fates.
Another wind blew by her and she tensed, hand snapping down to her whip, before realising it was just a sea breeze this time, not another assailant. ย She raised her eyes to the moon above her, which looked huge now that the fog had cleared, and it really was yellow. The sounds of fights had all but died away, and suddenly everything seemed distant, and she felt like she was floating up out of her body, just barely, her toes still touching the ground. There were a lot of stories in Shu Han about the moon; ghost stories and fairy stories, but they all came back to the sheer power of the moon. People falling in love with it, coveting it's beauty, being tricked by it, hypnotized, whisked away by the people who lived on it, or accidentally drowning as they tried to reach the reflection it cast in the water. Right now, she believed in those stories again, and understood them clearly. Half of her body ached to touch, her suit was ruined where she'd been scorched, and her face had been throbbing so hard for so long now that she didn't even notice when she spat blood out onto the pavement. If she was given the chance, she might just let the moon take her soul right now.
It looked so tranquil, and so apathetic, a million miles above them all, seeing the mess they'd made and not caring. Or maybe even not seeing at all, maybe something more interesting was happening elsewhere. But if the moon hadn't been watching, it was now. Her mother had warned her that it could always feel the tug of a wayward soul.
Her mother had warned both of them. Lifen and her sister. She hadn't thought about Dandan in a long time, went out of her way to bury her deep in her own subconscious, and this open admittance of a shared memory hurt like Hell. It shocked her, how deeply the memory touched her; it was a little thing, not as important as a birthday, or an argument. She couldn't even remember how old she'd been, or what the weather had been like, or what she was wearing, but it still sunk it's teeth into her chest and tugged down hard. She felt her throat close up, like she'd swallowed an apple whole, and, to her shame, felt her eyes fill up, still staring, transfixed on the moon, all her earlier energy evaporating with the fog. She shouldn't have wished the fog away, she wanted the cover, she needed it back, if she stayed out here, with her heart on her sleeve, the moon was going to take her, and everything about herself she'd worked to create was going to fall apart.
Lifen's saviour came in the form of the sound of someone punching someone else. Typical Ketterdamn. She snapped her head back to ground level, not even wincing at the pain that flourished in her neck was doing so, and just caught the end of Killian knocking someone out. She was far enough away to discreetly wipe at her eyes (very gingerly, it hurt to even close them), and limped towards her allies, already filling herself up with fake energy. She felt hollow and haunted, but that's not who Lifen Aakster was to those people, to anyone, including herself, and the ol 'fake it till you make it' could work wonders. "Good evening ladies and gentleman." She drew closer to three of them, Zera, Shu, and Killian, "Did you enjoy the show?" โฆย Zamir Nejenย โฆ The spider's reverence aroundย the dead man made Zamir feel guilty. It was an odd attitude to have in Ketterdamn, you'd be hard pressed to find someone who shared in Rafael's respect for the recently deceased in the Barrel. Maybe it was his cushyย upbringing, or just the gentleness of his soul, but he didn't act like the others did, Zamir included. Stopping to close the eye's of a corpse was not something he could see himself doing, especiallyย if said corpse had used his last moment alive to tryย and kill him. Maybe if he was feeling generous, he'd bless himself, but he knew he'd never try to actually touch the body. He could shake off a lot of his old home, but he couldn't shake off the eerinessย that came with looking at a dead body.ย
He felt bad about making a joke now, but did his best to smotherย those feelings as he did with any of his uncomfortableย thoughts. Life was too high stakes at the moment for the luxury of regret. He shoulderedย his gun again, swinging it over his back as he bentย to squat beside Rafael, "Alive is good, I guess. Depends on whether or not you're going to still talkย as much as you usually do." He did his best to maintain his detached persona by monitoring things he could control, like expression or gesture. There were things he couldn't control, of course, like the little warm rush he got when Rafael called him 'dear'. It was stupid, so stupid, ridiculous, in fact. He got called all kinds of things in the circus, some of them pleasant, some of them creepy, and some of them to be ignored, and he could handle it fine. He knew it meant nothing because the peopleย meant nothing, they were anonymousย figures in that evening's audience, or they were greasy nobodies he shared the Nightjar with. Hell, Hart called everyone he met 'love', and it didn't mean anything. And 'love' was a step up from 'dear' in the pet-name-hierarchy. So there was no reason for any reaction at all.ย
But that didn't change the fact that there was a reaction. Zamir was clever, and he knew his body was smart, it didn't lie, or trip him up. He was on good terms withย his body, so this little rush signified something or other. Maybe it's because they were very close now that Zamir had crouchedย down, or maybe it was because they were making an awful lot of eye contact, or maybe it was because the day had been so long that any form of kindnessย made Zamir want to cry. Maybe it was because Rafael had nearly been the one lying on the stones withย his life slipping out of him. Maybe. He sure as Hell didn't know. So instead, he just averted his eyes and shrugged to whatever Rafael was saying, which was both blurred by Zamir's sudden confusion, and as crystal clear as a wineglass in his head. "...We still have Red Wine to enjoy."ย
"With the way things are going, spirits might be high enough to get something good this time, instead of the cat pee they served before." He muttered, keeping his voice low. If Hart or Lifen heard him say that about their wares, they'd string him up outside the cathedralย and leave him for the birds. ย They were dramatic like that.ย
As Rafael went to stand, Zamir started to mirrored him, but involuntarilyย nipped forward when Rafael dipped down again, wincing. Rafael's own hands went to his upper left side, but Zamir, used to catchingย clowns and acrobatsย during their acts, instinctivelyย wove his hands lower down to stop him from sinking, pressing his palmsย againstย the small of his back. Rafael's wince died, and there was a heavyย silence for a split second where Zamir's tongueย turned to cotton. Rafael was so warm, and neat. He know that the boy wasn't fragile, but Zamir suddenlyย felt very clumsyย and completely out of line, almost like he should apologise, but he didn't know what for.ย
He would never believe in a higher power, but when a sudden heavy wind split through the docks and whipped his hair up off his face like he was hangingย upsideย down, ย he would've praised any saintย he could think of, becauseย it gave him perfect opportunityย to draw his ownย handsย away and stare up at the sky as the wind cut it open (staring anywhere non-incriminatingย was top of his priorityย list). He slowly lowered his hands back down by his own side, they feltย cold and wanted to go back to holding somethingย warm. Traitors.ย
He cleared his throat and stood again, stretchingย out his legs, "Yeah, that's my cue alright." He didn't always like being told what to do, but he felt very grateful for specificย orders at the moment, as he swept his arms out again, in a reverse image of his earlier role, dispersingย the moistureย in the air until it was so thin it fell to the earth. People were going to find themselves a little damp, but with much better vision. Zera was mainly to thank for this one, she sure was a powerhouse. His own job done, Zamir dropped his disappointed hands into his pockets and forced himself to talk to Rafael again, "Can you stand? Or would you like big, mute and ginger over there to carryย you home?" It was a stupid tease, but the mental image madeย him unreasonably agitated.ย
โฉ Killian Manusย โฉSince coming to Kerch, Killian had focused very hard on learning the language, so much so that his grasp on his own language had slipped a little. It was something that upset him unthinkably, his accent sounded stupid when he spat words out in broken Kerch, but in Kaelish it had a beautiful flow, and a soft, lilting quality. He'd found he'd forgotten words for things like 'brook' and 'sweet bun' in his native tongue, as the information had been destroyedย to make room for the imposing grey language of Ketterdamn. He had, evidently, not lost his ability to swear however, as when Zeddrid raisedย her arms and the wind rippled off from her, he ducked backwards, hissing, "Cac naofa!" under his breath, wide eyed and frightened. Swearing wasn't even something he madeย a habit of back home, because it upset his mother, but he'd heard plenty from the man she'd married in his time, and it was a universal truth that every man sweared in his native tongue. His own language was a small comfort in the face of Grisha abilities.ย
He'd seen them before, sparingly. At the circus, the few times he was postedย thereย as security, or on jobs not unlike this, where theyย needed a bit of cover. He'd never been this close however, and it'd certainlyย never happened without warning like this before. He backed up a few steps and did not come back over once the winds died. He felt water clinging to his clothes and looked around to try and find the cause. Some way over, he thought he could see the spider and the arrogant circusย boy, but his nightย vision wasn't great.ย
Behind him, he definitelyย heard the scuffling of someoneย standing up, and turned whilst swinging his rightย fist instinctively. Looks like his instincts paidย off, because the man he'd knocked out earlier rose for seconds. Maybeย Zeddrid's winds woke him, or the water on his face. Either way, he slumped back down again, and after Killian gave him a nervous tap with the toe of his boot, seemed to be staying down. The sudden winds had blown a lot of his hair out of the bun he'd out in, and his face was framed with wispy bits. At least the cold winds had blasted the blush off him, and the waterย helped run the blood fromย his face to the ground. His left arm burned where he'd been stabbed, but it wasn't overpoweringย and he could flex his fingers without difficulty. Good signs.ย
He heard someone approach and spotted Aakster limping out of the gloom. She didn't look so good, and her smile seemed a little forced, but she had all of her limbs and facial features (though she smelt suspiciouslyย burnt, and the left side of her suit was black and charred) He didn't bother listening to what she had to say, if it was importantย she wouldn't be smiling, so he just nodded when he thought he heard a question. If she noticed his lack of diligence, she didn'tย say anything, just let those cold steel eyes rake over him and then back to the girls.ย
Killian let his eyes wanderย over the bodies on the ground and felt sick to his stomach. In his head, he listed off an old prayer, two actually. One for the souls of the departed, and one for the souls of the living, who would one day answer for what they'd done today, and every dayย of their lives.ย
Ambroos De Veen
"If you call me 'love' again," Ambroos turned slowly to the direction the voice came from, "I'm going to blow out your other eye too, son." He let his hand fall downย fromย his face , blinking away the black stars that had blossomed in his field of vision. Vikhrov looked fine. Great, even. Barely injured at all. At least on the surface. Ambroos prayed he'd have at least a bruisedย rib to feel tomorrowย morning.ย
He didn't know for sure if Vikhrov onlyย had one eye. It was the mainย rumor, and why would a man with two eyes always hide one? But that didn't make it true. Still, he was in a bit of a mood, and he still had his gun aimed squarely, loaded and ready to go. The fog cleared up pretty quickly. Goddamn Grisha. Where was hisย own? He swore he'd heard her run off not long ago, startledย by somethingย or other. As for the rest of his men, there'd been no running away from them. They decorated the docks like ugly sandbags. In his peripheral, he could see standing figures, but they were not fighting, and there weren't enough of them to be White Crows and Styx. ย They seemed to be walkingย towards him now, not in any rush, but going to swell behind their leader. Their stinking leader.
"I want these docks, Vikhrov. Maybe I'm not going to get them tonight, but this isn't up for discussion. As long as you think you have a right to patrol this end of town, you're not going to have a moment's peace. Not just from me either," There was probably a scout or two out there right now, watching, "You'll have to go through the whole damn Barrel before you can call these your's."ย
It wouldn't be the White Crows tomorrow night, but there'd be another gang, and another. The Southern Thorns, the Poisonedย Fruit, the Jagged Stone, the list went on and on. "Your gang doesn't have what it takes to hold them all back, Vikhrov. You know it's too small. Maybe I'm not the heavy weight I used to be, but there are a lot of nasty people out there who'll run through you like you're nothing." The former nicetiesย had gone, and he looked haggard in the light of the moon. |
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Post by carmine. on Aug 20, 2017 7:52:28 GMT -5
Shu Chernyaev, Zera Zeddrid, Rafael Edkaird, Hart Vikhrov
โ โ โ
There was a head-splitting (literal) crack that seemed to resonate through the serpentine streets of the grimy city before sheโd spotted a shadow out of the corner of her eyes. Shu swivelled around, feeling her muscles jump and tense at the slightest sight of the movement behind herself, only to catch sight of Kilian punching the moonlights out of the man whoโd been lying sprawled across the floor just moments ago. They fell, slumping down again, unmoving as the rest of the bodies that were spotted across the deck, some whose chests rose up and down as they breathed, others now utterly still. Shu had to fight to not stare too long at the dark splotches soiled the cobblestone floor, dark and sticky and red underneath the shaft of light from the moon. The carnage tonight was blatantly evident; if the individuals currently on the ground managed to crawl their way out of the docks, perhaps they'd survive and live another day to see the dawn and dusk of the city. Others would most likely fade to nothing, joining the many victims of Ketterdamnโs tantalising lunacy, never to be spoken again.
It was right after that when Lifen emerged. With that said, sheโd seen the proud second of The Styx enough to understand that the curl of her lips looked forced, and that she looked far from okay. She was limping, which was discernibly pronounced, and her suit was crisply burnt, and her whole face was swollen, slowly darkening to a shade of violet. Whoever had inflicted damage on her, they must have had an advantage during the fight, or had caught her off guard in the thick, curling fog.
โGood evening ladies and gentleman. Did you enjoy the show?โ
Loosening her grasp around the hilt of her sword just the slightest bit before sheathing it, Shu took a step towards the second in command, her dark, golden eyes bright underneath the moonlight.
It was true โ the small, mysterious, and nearly permanent curve of her lips hadnโt faded, because itโd become a natural mechanism that allowed her to take a step back from the world she lived in and observe others, letting her close her heart from the reach of many, putting them at armโs length. Sheโd opened up to certain individuals before, and as of date, they had been some of the most poor decisions she'd allowed herself to make. The smile on her lips knelt to her commands, concealing her behind an impenetrable mask. I wonโt treat you with disrespect, but stay away from me, itโd say, placing a transparent yet steely barrier between herself and anyone who approached her too closely. Shu didnโt believe herself to be feeble, but she could be vulnerable, too. She was a liar, she was a thief, and she was a human of the Barrel โ she was just exactly that, no matter how many hyperbole others seemed to conjure regarding her loyalties. She was human. There were certain reactions that were provoked from certain words when she heard them from someoneโs mouth, even if she would not say. It seemed that, disillusioned by the mirage the Barrel placed on the individuals who roamed it freely, many had chosen to forget that she was still a breathing, living person who was in possession of thoughts and feelings โ just like them. And that was fine. Sheโd simply prove them wrong, as she had been for the many years sheโd been serving both Hart and Lifen. The day she turned against them would be the day she'd die.
Words swirled in her head and touched the tip of her tongue, all different, yet harnessing an emotion that could've been referred as worry. It was subtle and barely noticeable, but it existed, no matter how slight it seemed. When she rested her battered, calloused, and slender hand on her own head, the curve of her lips seemed a little more genuine โ like it was expressing something in a way that mere sentences could not. โYou look awful,โ she said, too weary to organise all the words that were swarming in her head, this time letting the relief in her eyes weave in with adjured amusement. Adjured, because it seemed that Lifen had spoken to keep spirits up, not down, and though a small part of her wished to ask if she was all right โ truly all right, it seemed that she couldn't let those words escape her lips, thus coercing her to automatically retreat to a reply that was minimalistic and put up with a sense of amusement.
โYou mustโve had quite the opponent, second-in-command,โ she heard Zera say from her side, the gunnerโs long, wiry hands resting on her own hip as she regarded Lifen as well. Her accent seemed to loosen, just a little, different from the times when she spoke with an undercurrent of cold anger. โIโm surprised the White Crows even lasted this long.โ
~
"All that aside, I think all of us enjoyed the show you displayed. One way or another, it seems that your bombs have saved quite a few of us,โ Zera heard the Shu Han woman say, and glanced over at her to see her rest her hand (which had been massaging her own temple moments before) now casually on the hilt of her blade.
Saints, Lifen looked bad โ as in, quite battered from the fight. The suit (what a waste โ itโd been that Grishaโs doing, hadnโt it?) she usually wore was burnt, fabric sizzled off in the areas the fire had most likely grazed her. Everything else seemed fine with the exception of the dents and blood that now embroidered the docks, but that was just how the brawls in Ketterdamn tended to go.
Dragging her hand through her pale hair, Zera exhaled a long sigh, blinking as she realised that her clothes were hanging off of her, as were all of theirs from the combination of powers utilised by herself and Zamir. Gods, she really and truly wanted to head back soon โ already she could feel the stickiness of the moisture and a quick shower and long sleep seemed to almost elicit a small grumble of complaint from her. But her face remained still, and her lips remained the same harsh straight line, because if there was one thing that Zera didn't like seeing others do, it was complaining. No one here seemed to be prone to whining like a newborn chick unless there was a dire situation that forcefully let curses or mutters escape themselves, and if there was a situation that caused some complaints, she wasnโt going to be the one to start the trail of โughโs and โHart youโre horribleโs (though she did have to admit that Vikhrov could be the most egregious entity from time to time. And so dramatic at that, too.
Speaking of which, she could see him now, standing over someone who seemed to be a little hunched over with a gun to their head, the curl of his lips wicked as it could get. She could see her leader's lips open, forming words, but words that fell deaf on her ears, because she could not hear him from this distance.
It seemed that Shu had a similar idea as her passing through her head, because she spoke up once more, her golden gaze fixated on the outline of the two men as well like a cat watching out for the slightest movement. โLifen,โ she said, and Zera, with her hand still wrapped around her gun, turned to face the figures as well. โYour command?โ The Grisha herself then asked, her accent as heavy and thick as ever. It most likely wouldโve been a good idea to start moving, but she was here to listen to those who held more status in the gang, not be the one giving out orders. Otherwise, she wouldโve taken the position for herself; unfortunately, she was disinterested in authority or power, and she strongly preferred others taking over. To some... yes, to some, she probably and most likely appeared to be somewhat similar to a mercenary.
~
Rafael didnโt think he imagined the subtle something on Zamirโs expression, though it seemed to dissipate the moment he could even begin to register the fact that heโd ever seen anything. Perhaps he was simply more drained than he had been before, as were they all after the unruly disorder in the docks they'd rightfully fought for โ or perhaps heโd remembered something that he hadnโt thought of until this point in time. Either way, Rafael also didnโt think that heโd imagined the slight change of temperature on the docks when he felt Zamirโs hands on the small of his back. Actually, scratch that โ the drastic change of temperature on the docks. The contact had sent small, electrifying currents over his spine, and he tried not to express too much surprise on his face when he found his warm eyes landing on the surface of the mismatched street beneath his feet โ the rugged surface he wouldโve found himself on had it not been for the surprisingly gentle hands that were holding him, steadying him.
If there was one thing the spider understood about himself and how others seemed to perceive him regularly, it was that he was quite the speaker, that was to say, someone who tended to break a hovering silence more often than not, especially in the midst of tense plights or circumstances. For Rafael (while he couldnโt exactly explain why), he didnโt find it too humiliating to step down to make a fool out of himself or pin the jokes on himself, if that somehow helped in loosening a transparent tautness that hung in the air between some individuals, no matter how thin that strain seemed to be. It came easily, and he didnโt exactly mind if he was seen as somewhat of a fool โ or a good-natured idiot. Their perspicacity regarding him wasn't quite wrong, after all; in a way, Rafael was a good-natured fool (for more than one reason, though it was mainly because he was working for the Hart Vikhrov of Ketterdamn, and it seemed that most people saw those working for Hart as one of three things: a strong individual, an outsider whoโd become a victim of his little game, or a complete nitwit). This time, however, the heavy silence that sat between himself and Zamir lingered for what felt like an hour, and for the first time in a while, Rafael found that he could not speak. It was as if someone had placed a burly hand over his mouth, gagging him, and the dense fog had slipped around his brain, letting no thoughts gyrate.
It seemed that, throughout the years heโd lived on Ketterdamn, there was a colorful diversity of saviours that came to step in to save the day, whether it be the creak of a wooden board or the sound of a skull breaking after mashing against stone or the emergence of a single-eyed man (though both could at times be a curse all the time). This time, Rafaelโs saviour came in the form of the rushing wind โ a familiar signal that cautioned him of the extirpation of something.
Silently, he watched the Tidemaker work his wonders, extending out his arms again, and in response, the fog seemed to deplete into nothing. Heโd heard of Grisha before, though until heโd run into Zamir, he'd never necessarily seen one. โTheyโre devils โ a monstrosity and miscreation, I say,โ he heard the low, guttural voice of a man he rarely let his mind regard, though the silhouette remained just as that โ a silhoeutte. He could no longer remember the lines and angles that had made up the older manโs face. โItโd be best if they all died and left us alone. Someone should eradicate them.โ Rafael was glad that he had never quite believed in most of the things the old man had said, because Zera and Zamir were anything but macabre. In a way, the first saviour heโd met out of all the colorful forms it came in the forlorn streets of Ketterdamn had been the actor. It didnโt matter what someone said about the young man โ Zamir was irreplaceable, and that was that.
Anyhow, thought Rafael as he shook his head to clear out the cluttered thoughts in his head as he realized that the only remnant of the thick, creamy fogโs existence minutes before was the dampness of his clothes, the thin fabrics of his shirt tugging down as if theyโd suddenly gained some inexplicable weight. Locks of his pale hair fell over his eyes once more, though he did not raise his hand to brush them away this time.
"Can you stand? Or would you like big, mute and ginger over there to carry you home?"
Grateful for the words after the fog had cleared (which, mind you, gave him a better vision of Zamirโs face and heterochromania eyes), the spider found himself lightly crossing his arms over his chest and quirking an eyebrow. For now, heโd let his mind stray from the odd sensation the touch and the silence seemed to have harboured. โCarry me home?โ He repeated as if finally letting the actorโs words sink in before a familiar smile took ahold of his lips. โIf someone's carrying me home, theyโd better do it bridal style.โ What? It was so much more comfortable than being roughly whisked away over the shoulder like a potato sac (which had happened before when some unfortunate things had happened, much to his displeasure). โAre you sure that you donโt need me carrying you home?โ You look exhausted. He imagined he did, too, especially with the wind dishevelling his silky hair, but he wouldn't say.
Removing his now-bare hands from his side, Rafael then gingerly took a step towards where he thought he could faintly see the familiar outlines of a few certain individuals. Theyโre safe, he thought with a wave of relief washing over himself. There were now many bodies littering the floor, but it seemed that the casualties that had resulted from this violent calamity didnโt belong to them. โOh, and I almost forgot to say,โ he said as he glanced over his shoulder, the mischievous light in his eyes returning as was the slight upwards tug of his lips, โIf I was down and unable to move, Iโd much rather have a certain sarcastic someone carry me home.โ
~
"I want these docks, Vikhrov. Maybe I'm not going to get them tonight, but this isn't up for discussion. As long as you think you have a right to patrol this end of town, you're not going to have a moment's peace. Not just from me either. You'll have to go through the whole damn Barrel before you can call these your's."
Hart Vikhrov only possessed one eye, but he wouldnโt have been surprised to know that there were others watching him currently, keeping their gaze fixed on his movements and his following actions. Other eyes, he thought, that belonged to those he did not consider as an ally. He could just see them, shyly cowering underneath the camouflage the shadows offered them, or cravenly watching from a height he could not see, above all of them, apprehensive that theyโd be caught or involved. That was fine. Let them listen.
"Your gang doesn't have what it takes to hold them all back, Vikhrov. You know it's too small. Maybe I'm not the heavy weight I used to be, but there are a lot of nasty people out there who'll run through you like you're nothing."
Leaning back just the slightest bit on his heels, Hart smiled his dastard criminalโs smile.
โOh? Well, Iโd certainly like to see them try,โ he said, his voice laced with amusement and rising to become a little louder than usual, as if to reach the ears of those uninvited guests who were listening. โThe Northern Dock is ours. Perhaps it is you who doesnโt understand how things now work in the Barrel anymore, Ambroos. It isnโt up for discussion for us, either.โ Black harmony had crept back in his dark, velvety voice once more, as it usually did when heโd separated himself from the subtly jocose, flamboyant, and lax leader of The Styx towards those of his own. Go on, then, his wolfishly penetrating gaze, colder than the arctic waters, seemed to challenge those who were there around him in that very moment.
โFor every little invitation they make, weโll simply return it. Surely this isnโt complicated logic even for you.โ Behind himself, he could hear familiar footsteps from his own crew, slowly reaching his side, though they were still quite away. โThis is your one free pass to leave unscathed yourself.โ Taking a step towards the older man with his pistol still raised, his long finger still over the trigger, he tipped his head to the side, indicating for the man to escape the docks. โLet's not test my temper now, love.โ
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Post by Deleted on Aug 21, 2017 8:12:37 GMT -5
Ambroos De Veen
A hole in his head would've hurt less then scampering away, and if Vikhrov admired him at all as a rival, he would've done him the favour of killing him now, so at least people could say he went out the 'Ketterdamn Way'. The option for mercy was more insulting than the whole rotten business of the docks put together.
He stood there for a few moments longer, unrivaled hatred in his eyes, before slowly taking one step backwards. The movement like wrong and stiff, like his whole body had locked, but he forced himself to take another one. Two of his men materialized around him, both of them supporting their fellow incapacitated gang members. The little fire Grisha appeared too, she'd been crouched behind some crates nursing her face. She had a long, thin line cutting down the left side of her face, and by closing her eye, she revealed the eyelid itself was almost cut in half. Turns out Lifen misjudged exactly how hard she 'grazed' her. There were still bodies lying around, but he didn't bother going after them. They were dead or as good as, and he wasn't in the funeral throwing business. If the Styx wanted the docks so bad, let them clean up the corpses.
"This isn't over, Vikhrov." He warned, voice going raspy, "You're going to wish you'd never even seen these docks." And with that, he turned and stalked away, his own sorry bunch of men following, casting one last glance over their shoulders before they vanished down a dark alleyway.
โถ Lifen Aaksterโถ
"The thing I just love about you Shu is your way with words. You are such a smooth talker." She pointed at Shu's face in a way that would've indicated 'speak to me like that again and you're dead' if it was anyone but Lifen, who could take it as much as she could dish it easily. The teasing felt good anyway, if they were in the mood to make jokes, they weren't too badly injured at all. "And at least I managed to keep both of my shoes, darling. Though that is a good look for you, you can make it work." She shrugged one shoulder, leaving the other one mercilessly static. It hurt way too much to move right now.
She'd always been drawn to the idea of a gang, not necessarily the crime at first, but the idea of strength in numbers, the idea of belonging. Maybe a philosopher or psychiatrist would've made the connection between her sudden interest in groups and the sudden lack of communication with her sister, but if Lifen had already done so, she didn't think about it too hard. This was nice. Her whole body ached, but they were all in the same boat. Zera was the most composed out of them all at the moment, seeing as Killian had a large gash down his arm and blood dripping off his forehead (but it didn't look like his blood, so that was fine.) and Shu looked like she'd been trampled by horses.
โYour command?โ For a while, when she first started, being asked to give orders wasn't something she fell into naturally. Not because she didn't like bossing people around (because she does) and not because she didn't understand what to do (because she did. Mostly.) but because she was incredibly independent, and sort of just assumed people could read her mind and do as she did. Maybe not the wisest of paths to take, but it made sense at the time. Since then, she'd more than filled her role, and was getting pretty good at the ol' commands. Plus it did marvels for her considerable ego when people had to defer to her.
She glanced over at Hart, "Eh, he's got it under control. We can mosey on over there all the same if you so please, however. I do believe congratulations are in order, because the docks have been officially christened. In blood and flash bombs, yes, but they're still our's." She flung her arms wide, and then regretted it immediately, wincing and letting them slowly drop to her sides again.
Zamir and Rafael appeared beside them, looking notably ruffled, "Where the fricking heck were you two?" Lifen waggled her finger at them, "You both look suspiciously flustered."
"Go to hell, Aakster." Zamir shot back, tugging his coat collars up. Up ahead, Hart seemed to be wrapping up his business with De Veen, so she headed his way, knowing the others would follow.
"Five kruge says he opens with some kind of clichรฉ." She whispered as they got closer. She liked to think she knew Hart pretty well by this stage, as well as anyone could know him. She had a sneaky feeling he wasn't quite as flamboyant as he let on he was, sometimes she would catch his expression out of the corner of her eye and the intensity of emotion was borderline frightening. He was more fun than she originally pegged him for. First meetings could be deceiving, she supposed. It wasn't like they met in a circus either, it was in the tiny little accountant's firm, Van Dijk & Van Dijk where she'd gotten her first job in Ketterdamn. Talk about a durge. She was too thankful for money at the time to be judgy of where she worked, but looking back on it, she'd been dangerously close to dying of boredom some days. Of course she'd also been dangerously close to dying of starvation.
It had been a small building, tight even by standards here, with one skinny door leading directly onto a wooden staircase which was lit only by a dirty window in the hall (Lifen's first task had been scrubbing that window clean) Upstairs was the 'lobby' a bare room with an old carpet, a low table and three mismatched chairs, where Lifen acted as 'secretary'. There was a curtain partitioning the room in half, with Van Dijk and Van Dijk behind the screen (she never figured out if they were brothers or lovers.)
It had been insulting to be resigned to cleaning and people greeting (though she did much of one and hardly any of the other) when she was excellent with numbers, but she'd been happy to just use this job as a ledge to leap off of. True she'd been planning to apply to a different accounting firm when this one went under, not into another gang, but hey, beggars can't be choosers, right? She'd seen Hart a few times before they actually spoke properly, he was just about their only regular customer (Not counting the old woman who spoke to Lifen like she was an infant instead of an immigrant.) and she'd been the one to welcome him in every fourth day.
She'd had a moleskine diary filled with meetings and booked appointments, mainly one offs and serial complainers, the old lady had been their most frequent customer and she was here so often that Lifen assumed it was the only social interaction she got. She got to know who was here, not by the diary (which she still had, but it had certain explosive recipies in it) but by the sound their footsteps made on the stairs coming up. Frankly her job as a little redundant, because she knew Van Dijk and Van Dijk could hear as well, but having a secretary must've made them look fancier or something. The first time she'd heard Hart's footsteps coming up the stairs, she'd been startled, having grown used to the slow, light steps of that old lady and the impatient heavier steps of an annoyed customer (one of many).
Hart had been coming here longer then Lifen had actually, but she still spun off the required 'Hello, it's very nice to meet you, welcome to Van Dijk and Van Dijk, please take a seat, blah blah blah....' Her accent still tellingly thick and her Kerch slow. In the beginning, she'd stuck to the script because her bosses' were right behind a very thin piece of fabric, but over time, when Hart would show up while they were out, she talked to him more naturally and once, after a very long wait, offered to look over his numbers herself instead. It wasn't long before Lifen handed in her letter of resignation and was off to bigger and more illegal things.
Since she'd began to work for him directly, Van Dijk & Van Dijk had vanished into the myriad of failed business in this ruthless city, their tiny building now an independent pleasure house called 'Lucky Number'. The irony was wasted on all but Lifen, who appeared to have leached their best costumer.
In the present, she approached their fearless leader as De Veen vanished, sending a simple one fingered gesture at his retreating back before turning to Hart, "You know, I don't think he likes us very much. He might if he got to know us, the real us."
โฆ Zamir Nejen โฆ Zamir ran his fingers through his curls, getting snagged more than once, flicking access water out. He dragged one hand over his body, clumsily grabbing fistfuls of dew off of him and onto the ground. He was still cold and damp, but he got the most of it. He would've offered to do the same to Rafael, but the thought of touching him again was a little too much for him right now, so he stayed in selfish silence.
โIf someone's carrying me home, theyโd better do it bridal style.โ Despite himself he rolled his eyes good naturedly for once, "Get up, idiot. You're going to be stiff tomorrow if you spend too long on the ground. And I don't think you could carry me, shortstop. Not without my head bouncing off the ground." He almost laughed there now, but had managed to fight it off. Zamir had a somewhat uncontrollable snort when he laughed, and it didn't really feed into his smooth persona. It was about the only thing these days that embarrassed him (One of two now, apparently, seeing as the small of Rafael's back had shot up out of nowhere to claim the number one spot.)
When Rafael stood, Zamir started to make his way over to the others, hands thrust deep into his pockets to fight the cold, and also the longing feeling to hold something. Rafael glanced over his shoulder at him, "If I was down and unable to move, Iโd much rather have a certain sarcastic someone carry me home.โ Zamir just bulrted out the first thing that came to mind, unable to think too complexly about anything at this current moment in time, "I don't think Hart does piggy back rides."
They came up to the four others, Lifen (dear Ghezen she looked awful), Shu, Zera, and Killian, who looked tired, but triumphant. "Where the fricking heck were you two? You both look suspiciously flustered." Any sympathy he may've felt for Lifen's drastic appearance vanished and he pulled his coat collars up over his chin to fight off some of the cold, "Go to hell, Aakster."
As they made their way over to Hart, he caught snippets of the end of the conversation, something about fighting the whole Barrel every single night? Saints above. One night alone had exhausted him, if Hart was planning to do this again, he was either a) going to schedule it during the afternoon or b) doing it without him. The timing tonight had been lucky, there was no circus tomorrow, but that had been a pure fluke.
A grim thought crossed his mind Maybe he wants you to faint on stage? That'd make a really interesting show. It was the voice of a tired, paranoid version of Zamir, but not an altogether unbelievable one. He never knew what Hart was up to, and maybe he didn't want to, that man always seemed to have one hand counting money and then other loading a gun.
"Can we go already?" He asked, speaking for what he believed was the majority voice, "There's a two foot long drinking straw in The Corona with my sorry name on it." He hadn't had time to do proper cool-down stretches after his last show and his whole body was seizing up, screaming at him for not sitting down. He was going to be even worse whenever he woke up tomorrow, but at least then he may still be partially drunk too. Things were always better when you were partially drunk.
โฉ Killian Manus โฉGently tugging his bronze knuckles off, Killian flexed his big fingers a few times, glad to be rid of the weight of them. He rubbed them on the edge of his shirt, wiping blood off and slid them back into his pockets. He rubbed his knuckles were the bronze sat, trying to banish the pain and the forming blisters away. His skin was rough these days, but his movements were still incredibly soft. Just because life had thrown him some sour cards didn't mean he himself had to change. People associate farm life with being tough, and it is, but sometimes a bit of clement behaviour went a long way, particularly with pregnant animals and babies. Maybe that's why he got on so well with cats, because he understood how important little loving touches could be. Or because he always had cheese for them and he was big enough so that several could fit on his lap at once.
While the girls talked he watched Hart and Ambroos speak, with the latter slowly backing up. They left behind the man at Killian's feet. He wasn't dead, he was just going to wake up in the morning in a lot of pain with stiff limbs. Maybe he might die of pneumonia, but that was on his fellow peers rather than the Styx. They also left behind the man by the bomb explosion, though he might actually be dead already. Killian thought he knew death well, you don't get to eat animals you rear without seeing it, but Kerch deaths were different from Kaelish ones. Death here was a currency, but it had no value. It was everywhere, common as dirt, so when it arrived, there was no fanfare. When it was gone there was no ceremony. He didn't trust that.
Rituals were important, he knew this much. There was a reason people marked their birthdays, or anniversaries, or holidays, or kept diaries and told stories and wrote songs and plays about important things. Human beings required to ability to look back on how far they've come and see a pattern. They needed structure, building a stable past was essential for moving on, and there no nothing more valuable to this practise then funerals. Funerals were always a privilege, but back home this meant 'a nice gravestone and a dark wood coffin'. Here it meant 'any form of respect or memorial at all.' The men here would vanish, and in about a year's time, maybe less, there maybe not even be people left to remember them.
He'd almost suffered the same fate when he first got here. There was work for a man of his strength, yes, but Killian spoke no Kerch and couldn't ask for a job. Even if he made it as clear as he could, he was unhirable. He thought that maybe people here thought he was simple. He couldn't buy food and he couldn't buy accomodation, and he was beginning to get desperate every night he went to bed hungry in a doorway. In the end, he walked up to the first casino he saw and just stood outside of it. He couldn't read the sign above the door, but there was a symbol, a simple circle was a longsword through it. When people came up to be let in, they showed him ID he couldn't read and handed him a few Kurge each. A tip, nothing more, but saints it felt good to have money in his hand. It was hardly a master plan, but it was easy enough to get into at the time, and he didn't see how it could go wrong (he was just so happy to be earning).
At the end of the day, the workers started to pour out and his plan crumbled. He should've left before this, but he didn't know when the club closed and he wanted to make as much money as he could. The workers must've gone to get their boss, because before long a one eyed man came out and approached him. He spoke Kerch, no surprise there, and Killian just stood there, head hanging, silent. After a while, the man stopped speaking, maybe he was waiting for an answer to something, so Killian just handed him whatever money he'd made and left. Maybe if he gave them what he'd earned they wouldn't lynch him.
The next day, a little delirious from hunger, one of the workers from the night before approached him, a Shu Huan woman who looked like she'd been searching for him. She pressed a tart thing with onions into his hands, pulled him up out of the street by his lapels and lead him back to the club by his hands, pulling like a terrier on a lead. She wasn't very gentle herself, and kept muttering to herself the whole time like she couldn't believe what was happening. She lead him back to the club from before, put a hand on either side of him and positioned him to where he'd been standing earlier. She pressed her hands to her chest and said, "Lifen." She then pointed to the building he was standing outside of, "Iron Signet." Turning around, she pointed to a man talking with some business clerks a little way off, the one eyed man, "Hart Vikhrov." She raised her fist, and he winced out of habit. This made her roll her eyes in annoyance and shock as she yanked down the sleeve of her shirt, pointing to the tattoo that mirrored the sign above the door, "The Styx." She took a few steps back as he digested this information (and the food he'd been given), looking him up and down a few times, obviously not completely sold. Still, she was clearly not the boss, and was just following orders. She turned to go, but stopped the last moment, pointing at him, and speaking in sloppy, hesitant Kaelish "Fan ann, fear mรณr."
"Stay there, big man." His mind was buzzing with a million thoughts, and strangely the one he remembers most vividly is how much he hated being called 'big man'. In time, the puzzle pieces clicked; The Styx were a new gang who needed cheap labour to protect their fledgling casino until it got better legs, and Killian had been lucky enough to be stupid enough to just show up on their door.
Now, it seemed like it had happened to someone else it was so long ago. He still kept his silent act up most of the time, and he hadn't had a conversation with Hart since their one sided one that day outside the Iron Signet.
why is my zamir section always so short? เฒ โญโฎเฒ every time
also killian is highly relatable bc i too would just hang around outside a club taking money off people )
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Post by carmine. on Aug 21, 2017 11:02:51 GMT -5
( that's totally okay!! quality over quantity cc; omg i almost said quantity over quality. my brain is completely dead rn it's so late help but at the same what is sleep. sorry if i sound tired i'm literally about to faint xc
i think i'd be doing the same he's a v relatable char and i sorta feel bad for him cause he's surrounded by scary ppl and even more scary ppl haha
i'll try to get a response up tomorrow!! )
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Post by Deleted on Aug 23, 2017 9:55:38 GMT -5
'quantity over quantity' - wcrf user alastair, 2017
so wise
so articulate )
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Post by carmine. on Aug 23, 2017 11:08:40 GMT -5
the most wisest and articulate words ever spoken in the year of 2017 ( อกยฐ อส อกยฐ)
x100,000 jk
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Post by Deleted on Aug 23, 2017 11:45:58 GMT -5
you should write an autobiography, call it 'why settle?' and just humble brag for 200 pages
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Post by carmine. on Aug 24, 2017 0:23:26 GMT -5
pffff been there already done that
i just realized why on earth is the word quanti/ty being censored
edit: !!! and now it's not 00: maybe this really is the dying call of my computer the battery is shrinking really fast too from 100% to 33% in 30 minutes. i should probably let this buddy go
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Post by Deleted on Aug 24, 2017 6:55:17 GMT -5
the other day multitude was censored too,,, those dang boobies are getting everywhere
edit; it's fixed!! haha now no one can stop me from saying titties
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Post by carmine. on Aug 24, 2017 10:57:10 GMT -5
really? 00: wow that's really strange
alllsooo is it weird if a. that made me laugh and b. that comment just made my night?
imma go now but weiorj%6wi i promise i'll try and get something up soon and respond to anything else that i need to
right now though i gotta go and sleep or i'm going to be a zombie tomorrow haha
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Post by Deleted on Aug 24, 2017 13:16:47 GMT -5
titties are enough to make ANYONES night my friend
go in peace my undead friend ~
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an uncontrollable flirt who happened to sort of suit a split lip. She could make it work. Hart, on the other hand, not that he wasn't very handsome, was meant to look presentable. He was the face of The Styx, and he was supposed to be untouchable. He wasn't, of course, but they had their own way of dealing with that. A certain absent Grisha who was undoubtedly listening to the riot from all the way in little Ravka, tutting and shaking her head. She didn't know what she was missing.
