Briza

What Makes a Good Villain?

^{ʙ ʀ ɪ ᴢ ᴀ !} ⋌༼ •̀ ⌂ •́ ༽⋋ ^{ʙ ʀ ɪ ᴢ ᴀ !}

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

Briza's two (2) month late response to the GM's Post:

Edit: Also, bump.

World of Darkness: City of Angels

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Yay! More players!

Word association Game!

Briza

Word association Game!

Scissors ✂️

World of Darkness: City of Angels

Works Cited

Nabokov, Vladimir. Pale fire, 1962.

World of Darkness: City of Angels

𝓔sther 𝓟uniceus

ᴘᴇᴘᴘᴇʀᴅɪɴᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsɪᴛʏ's sᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀs ᴛʜᴇᴀᴛᴇʀ | ᴍᴀʟɪʙᴜ, ᴄᴀʟɪꜰᴏʀɴɪᴀ

Carefully tapping her slender fingers in the shadows, Esther stared at the milky skin beneath her silk, black lacework. No matter how modern the drama, it was always fundamentally the same thing. She preferred the classics for this reason. It dumbfounded her that Malkavians could get so lost in the unnecessary simplistic theatrics of this world. However, it also dumbfounded her that Malkavians could see the future in so helpful of a manner. There was mystery in all their weaves. However, she could not have been more more bored at watching the little girls sprinkle their ballerina toes on stage.

Not only was the theater less than spectacular in comparison to the baroque displays of Imperial Russia; nor, the arts being exasperated in comparison to this postmodern era of the Western World, lacking the ornate peasantry of elegant leaflets and delicate intricacies, but the sparkles of glitter reflecting from the girls' cheeks were all too posthumanist for Esther's interest. They would have to work harder to flourish at this rate. Their fundamentals were so bare and dry, and the fluidity of their limbs were wandering through the raspy air like stillicide and icicles, fighting the puritanical, straight tatting with their flounce and flamboyancy. There was more than a play birthing on the stage. There was a historical fight re-announcing itself under yet another veil.

O, drama. How depressing.

Her head tilted slightly, eyelashes brushing closed against her pale cheeks in the darkness of the room. A yawning thumb slid to gently touch the rim of a gold ring placed upon her middle finger. No matter the redundancy, there was a reason she had gilded herself to the more classical nature of theater arts, her time spent under Catherine the Great had made a complexly lasting presence in her. She could have been to blame for the travesty of the Third Rome’s abortion. However, she knew better than to scold such a figurehead. Perhaps, it was du Bois. Perhaps, it was Jean-Baptiste.

Esther opened her eyes and discreetly watched Peter’s reactions unfold. Each recital had shown her a different side of him. She was remarkably more interested in the Kindred’s childish reactions than the theatrical debacle performing a temper tantrum on stage. There was still respect to be made in obvious notes for their attendance, but such a compliment towards the nearly incomprehensible Malkavian, was as much passe as the late tsarina and her husband, Peter the Great.

O, Peter. He had caused so much controversy in that long dream. And, here he was, playing thoughtlessly and helplessly again, right next to her. He was a thorn in her side. It would be such a shame if something happened to him. He had some good in him -- it was not great, but it was worth the chase. He adored his supposed niece. Her golden locks were cupped into a bun, and her leotard was flounced with Yuri’s expertise, “Your little kotik,” Esther hushed lowly at the Malkavian. He was nipping his bottom lip in hungry, patient anticipation, as if he expected something different from the performance.

His head moved slightly in the ambiance; brown hair skirting against Esther’s cheek as his frame balanced an elbow on the arm of his chair. he grinned softly back at the Ventrue, slightly uninterested in her melancholy whims, “Come to us and stay the night, to rock our little baby. I will pay you, kotu, for your work - I will give you a piece of piroga and da, a jug of moloka,” Peter’s words were contritely sarcastic sounding in his lullaby. The brim of his nose touched her cheek playfully, creepily.

Pulling her hand from the cloth of her lap, she brought her fingers to her neckline, adorned with several a small golden cross. The lacework caught the outlines of the trefoil, and scrolled the outline of its motif and buds. The rich, ornate feel was cold to the touch, just like her. A small breath concentrated under her, “Your little kotik,” she nodded stoically towards the stage. The dim reflections caught her pale skin, gently maneuvering Peter’s attention back to the spotlight, again. As she rested her head against his childish, irresponsible foibles. For the time being, this spectacle was less depressing than the drama ensuing in Los Angeles. Her complacency was less than obvious.

There had been ruffles of rumors and smoke emerging from the sewers; all likely to find their stench under her nose. It was why she held it so high and inclined her neck for very few. Peter was one of those few, him and his little toys. All three of them. She had stayed away from the primelight successfully for some time. It had been her role in her first life and now this one, it seemed. She was always passing herself as one thing or another, but rarely was she ever herself. For now, she was Uncle Scott’s friend, who introduced little Annie to the art of mastering the grand pas de deux.

Esther and Peter had to be somewhere later, after the suite — affectionate and loving. The Kindred has long forgotten what that entailed. It had been something that embroidered her past, and now, after so many centuries, there was evidence that there was some sort of brilliant insight, which tied the nous of all the happenings, surrounded by this mystical, redundant phenomenon. The romantic desire for something; anything; everything; nothing — all at once, like a choreography: the world was dancing to a dark tune, and her most comforting lead was her date with a schizophrenic rabbit.

She was being pulled into the mess one way or another. Getting spun in the puppeteer's web was not too terribly hard after centuries of life being granted. Getting untangled was in itself another mystery Esther had long since been pondering with various intervals of defeat. Unfortunately, her dismissive slumber had ended. She was being summoned, again, down into the grave hole of her duty. The dance would be over soon, and the curtain would be closing. Merci.

ᴍɪʀᴀᴄʟᴇ ᴍɪʟᴇ | ʟᴏs ᴀɴɢᴇʟᴇs, ᴄᴀʟɪꜰᴏʀɴɪᴀ

Beneath the evening sky, the colors draped beautifully and lovely, as always. The three were sitting at a small patio table outside of an gelato parlor. Weather had warn on the materials of the table to add an antique flavor of fashion. Annie's face was powdered with ladylike features. It made her appear older and more mature. One of her hands, small and supple, draped its fingers into a loose weave with Peter’s own hand. She was licking the top sugar of vanilla and bubblegum ice cream scooped like a unicorn into a waffle cone. The excitement of the recital seemed to have settled, and the Malkavian’s focus had seemingly calmed to a passable level of vocal sanity, “Why didn’t Melissa come?” Esther's voice questioned passively but with a sharp silibance, indicating the unfortunate impatience she was feeling between the two guests.

A pause was given for him to answer, but like most Malkavians, his obedience had left with his sire. His dark eyes were staring at her, begging a reason as to why she would ask such a question. The pondering thoughts were scattered amongst a dismal expression of carelessness. He seemed oblivious to the nature of what was happening; the course of his own knowledge had ridden him lethargic and incapable in the event of Los Angeles' perpetual tragedy. He was true to his essence. He did finally reply though, “I did not want her to get jealous,” his answer was spoken in a polite, gentile manner, and his grip on Annie rose, as his eyes stirred from Esther and back to the youth of the little girl. An dull smile crept onto his lips, “of Annie.” His smile continued whimsicall, now directed at the Ventrue.

Before Esther could respond, supressed by her own lack of assumption and judgement to have even troubled with entertaining his response, Peter continued, “And of you, of course, my kotu.” His eyes played with both Annie and Esther in his mind; an obvious disorder was spinning in his thoughts, “I did promise you hoarfrost.” His spare finger dipped into the vanilla of Annie’s dessert and glistened the treat into the tip. Quickly, he tapped his finger on Esther’s nose, “White-Nose Syndrome has murdered millions of bats across America.” Annie giggled at her uncle's silly display, matching his Cheshire grin. The Ventrue swiftly tapped the cream from her skin, giving the reaction as if an itch had bothered her and caught Peter's hand as he was withdrawing it. Esther's silence continued in her silhouette of movements, and her palm guided the Malkavian’s own hand closer to himself, “It’s a good thing you’re a cat and not a bat,” he spoke smugly, as his personality resided back into the depths of his own uncharted imagines. His mind had already changed subjects; turned phases.

Esther released his hand, like a nurse to a patient slipping back into a therapeutic coma. She pitied the Vampire, sometimes. He was mad; his happiness was lost. His unyielding amusement with woman was to show. Unfortunately, tonight was not a night for a dispense in emotion. They would have to leave soon, and there was little room for the Malkavian’s nursery rhymes and idiosyncratic dialogue to interefere with age old conversations. Perhaps, there would be excuse the poor White Russian’s slurred alveolar ridge. No, Annie was older than a young girl, even if she retained many attributes of one. Peter and Annie had this in likeness, and Esther was not bothered enough to pry. The girl, however, smelled less innocent than her appearance — much like the tsarina and her pet unicorn with its broken glass horn.

“I also have a hat,” Esther leaned forward. Keeping Peter focused would be a good deal of business. Her elbow assumed on the table, and her cheek rested atop of her hand. Peter was already lost in the nightlight and the noise buzzing around them. Esther shifted her gaze to the Ghoul, “How old are you again, Annie?” Her eyes pondered over the young girl. Annie was fourteen, now, about the same age of when Esther had met Rodericus. Peter had no similarities to the altar server other than his mutual regurgitation of: O samaya svyataya ledi Bogoroditsy, svet moyey temnoy dushi, moya nadezhda, moya zashchita, moye pribezhishche, moy otdykh i moya radost'. His parents would be so ashamed of him, now. Tsk tsk. Not that he remembered much of his life before his embrace.

“I am eight,” Annie chimed in a youthful disposition. Her automatic response seemed like it had taken years to master. The girl smiled, revealing a flawed character of an eight year old. The shimmer in her eyes was older and more thirsty for knowledge than an ordinary juvenile. She had a dark corruption that an eight year old could only know from something outstanding such as abuse or force. To Esther, it was obvious the girl was an addict. The child enjoyed his kiss and her temporal immortality; she had even lost her youth before reaching the age of contemplation. Her types generally interested Esther. However, as a retainer to a Malkavian, she had a lack of reason that kept Esther from furthering her inquiry on the girl's state of affairs. The Kindred knew much better than to dabble with that. Her sire had taught her well. Losing dignity, especially in the face of madness was not one of the Truths of the Ventrue.

They would be leaving soon. The travel and small stop by Milk Jar Cookies was enough to passify the girl and the time while they waited for Saint Sophia Cathedral's Great Vespers to end. Esther was looking forward to the golden pomp and brilliant display of light fixtures. Peter hardly favored under the site; and often times he reunited with memories that left him haunted for days. For this reason, she had given him several gifts in hopes that he would mind himself. This was evidence enough that both were always nursing on a small mad hope, artistically caged to immortal imagery to which they had no real freedom; and no free man needs God. (Nabokov)

What Are You Listening To?

Current Mood in One Gif

>Trw Briza Armstrong! ೭💪(❛▿❛✿)੭೨🗡️✨

[Reboot] Ｔｅｒｒａ ＿ ｒ：Ｅｖｏｌｕｔｉｏｎ

_{“𝚆𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢.”}

𝙾𝚞𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑.

𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚝 𝟷𝟸

---

Ｔｈｅ Ｓｈｉｎｉｇａｍｉ Ｐａｒｔｙ

𝙱𝚢 𝙾𝚛𝚒

Vibrations rumbled the ground of the vicinity as smoke and dust swarmed the atmosphere like a cloud of hornets. The wall collapsed; and the railing faltered under the feet of stripping androids; but the party still continued buzzing to the loud beats that echoed in the parameters of the concrete building. A small pause had hesitated in the minds of each guest. However, despite the pause and just like the party, the terrorist attack continued playing, minding nothing but their mission. Even as blood soiled the gray flooring and people began collapsing to the ground, excitement applauded in the onslaught of the scene: JPN-22 knew how to put on a show. The Shinigami Party was a real hit.

All the dead bodies were just so lifelike. They looked so real: ragged like dolls in puddles of what seemed to be their own bodily fluids. However, a sour stench enveloped the room in bitterness as each guest began to question the untasteful avante-garde display of death. It was not clear when the techno music turned into loud screams of horror and panic began crippling the party-goers into their own deaths. But, bullet by bullet - limb by limb - guest by guest, invitees began dropping like flies, coating the concrete in their own stinky mucus and gore. The Shinigami Party was a real hit.

... a pause that only makes everything after it so much worse.

EuroCorp Snipers had been stationed on the roof tops of surrounding buildings and in various locations inside and outside the warehouse. There was not a chance that EuroCorp would allow such a party to pursue without extreme caution. However, communication lines had been severed due to unforeseen circumstances that left the EuroCops in the dark for several seconds. Before the blink in connection, a signal had been transferred to be weary of any suspicious vehicles. This was a necessary step in all circumstances, but the heavy command weighted the necessity of continue inspection. Despite the warning, the warehouse had been infiltrated. The Shinigami Party had been crashed.

The light show had projected on the walls of the building next to the warehouse in the form like a spectacle of rainbows decorating the lowlife graffiti and molded exterior. Fog had clouded from the hole and dispersed into the air. Music from the warehouse could be heard. The shadows of bodies dancing to the music were deepened in the umbrage of the new wave excitement. There was beauty in the progressive portrayal, and even the Snipers had a lapse in judgement before their profession projected them into duty. However, the shrieks and new communications gave away the truth behind the act. The show was over. The Shinigami Party had been crashed.

---

It was All Quite on the Western Front // As the Ethereal began placing Bets // In an Electrical Shunt

---

“She's like a flower, Penny,” Mister Ueno's speech was slurring in Penny's ears. She could feel his snug breath against the tips of her ears, warm and lucid, and his accent was dressed in weak, ill-flavors that were tempting to sicken her head, resting comfortably heavy against the couch and Mister Ueno's silk shoulder. Her legs were relaxed as she purred her mouth into a smile, wondering when the man would ever just shut the fuck up. She had a sliver of hope that he would just leave the party early, taking her with him.

To hell with the robots. She was feeling more withdrawn because of the androids than the vodka. If anything, the fucking androids were wasting her high, especially the centerfold, catching the attention in such a graceful manner. It was like watching a butterfly as the android opened and closed the wings of her kimono, revealing smooth, milky, supple skin. The skin was much like Penny's own wrists. Penny's eyes glanced downward, studying the creamy augmentations that were glowing under the black lights and colorful iluminations.

Same, but different.
She could hear her mother saying.

Too different, but too same.
Penny corrected her thoughts.

She felt like a wallflower in comparison to the AI, and the Korporat18 chemical cosh was not what Mister Møller had cracked it up to be. She never liked Møller, anyways. He so haughty it was disgusting. Mister Ueno was disusting, too. She never liked him either. She never liked any of them, actually. They were all little pieces of slimy shit. She was merely dirtying herself with them in order to win The Game.

Her head motioned slightly, feeling the spinning width of the sedative depress her nerves. Her eyes retired under her dark, cut hair and looked to Mister Ueno, “Just like you,” Her small smile dipped closed as she turned herself closer to the man, placing her palms against the cushion for lift. She could feel the weight of her frame push against augmented wrists as her thighs shifted, caressing against each other. Her focus was on the CEO, again, “Uenosama.”

Mister Ueno peaked his eye in small amusement at the cortisan, “Oh?” his voice reflected lowly under the music in mock protest as he ignored her intimacy “Your compliments are too gentle and soft for a man like Mister Ueno,” His brown eyes looked to the man across from him, asking pardon for having to hear such a benign comment from his escort. However, the conversation was barely audible between the CEO and Penny. Apparently, both of his gestures were out of simple amusement and pedantry to sway Penny-chan, the all too easily entertained doll. Wasn't she supposed to be entertaining him? She was relaxing in such a way that he did not mind the candor.

You are like a carrion flower, Mister Ueno. Penny thought in her manner of having grown more impatiently with the party and feelings for a lack of amusement coming from the drug like an itch. Battling wits with Mister Ueno had become a bore. Mister Ueno had won. He was much too smart for the poor little whore. Penny let out a feigned, playful sigh and lowered her speech, drawing her lips closer to his ear, “But you are so soft, Uenosama,” she whispered, kindly touching two fingers against his skin, jesting wistfully at his lack of self-knowledge. A man like Mister Ueno should know better. Her fingers petaled to his clothes line, toying with his sobriety.

Unfortunately or fortunately for Penny, depending on the likelihood that her indulgent mannerisms would hold any reign on Mister Ueno's presence at the party, a loud explosion jolted the building. The music dropped to the contemporary movement before continuing the entropy displaying tune. Shards and decor, twisted loose from the higher interior, fell to the ground. Glass and wires were curling in the disarray, and specs of old parchment and cement sprinkled on top of Mister Ueno and Penny, who made a slow reaction to the situation and was more confused by Mister Ueno's sudden harshness. His rough hand, grabbed a hold of her wrist and squeezed her skin tightly. His suddenness caused a small retraction of incoherence in the woman as she stared at his tan skin gripping into her augmented skin. It was clear Penny's own lapse in judgement had faltered, under the paws of Korporat18's newest formula.

“Get down.” Mister Ueno's voice was calm and precise; and the way in which he moved the two of their bodies lowly, his command also seemed unnecessary and merely made out of politeness. Penny's body was a puppet under Mister Ueno's control as he guided her through the debris of dark clouds. “Follow me.” Dust and smoke whisked past them as the CEO corresponded with his own personal security.

The smoothness of Mister Ueno's voice transcended through the debacle and carried Penny's thoughts over to the next translation of events. A woman who appeared to be bleeding from her scalp came to help them. It seemed that a part of a light fixture had tumbled upon her, but she was making no mind of having any feelings of injury upon herself. Her dark cloaked frame signaled the exposition of several other women, also dressed in all black. They approached through the shadows like spiders who had been stealthily waiting for this event to transpire the entire time, and shortly after their brief revelation, the small swarm of women guarding and ushering the CEO of Zero through the attack, worked through the web of chaos and vanished — along with Penny — but not before someone shouted the terrifying news that:

_{“Mister Mak Møller's been shot!”}

---

---

Right in the middle of an episode of Evangelical, Terravision's screen changed. The vigil reported the scene of a EuroMed Hospital. The evening sky was musty in the background, but the stage lights that the camera crew provided a more angelic spotlight for the dreary backdrop. Beyond the horizon of the ominously white and gray building of District 5, silver traces of the moon were captured on the lenses. Standing in the middle of the frame was a reporter, dressed professionally in EuroCorp's fashion. The reporter's eyes were violet and obviously augmented for such a beautiful, hypnotic color. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled into a tight, long ponytail. Her cheeks were sculpted by illusions of makeup. Seriousness rested on her face. On the bottom of the frame, text scrolled across the screen:

_{“Ikon's CEO Mister Mak Møller has been hospitalized.”}

“This is Ceedee Violet, reporting live from one of EuroMed's Hospitals. The CEO of Ikon, Mister Mak Møller, was hospitalized earlier this evening for what appears to have been an assassination attempt. Two men have been detained and are currently being questioned in District 15's Correctional Facitilies.”

The digital picture shifted its screen to imagery of the CEO, days prior to the event being shown. He was administering a speech about his visit to Korporat18, providing a good-looking Mister Mak Møller and a silver-lined tongue as he expressed interest in maintaining peace between the two megacorporations. Controversy had conspired that Ikon's CEO was industrializing treason, but Mister Mak Møller's Press Release held strong ties that the young CEO was simply joining forces in his care for preserving peace.

“The EPA and EDF are investigating into the matters as to whether Korporat18 is to blame for today's assassination attempt. Updates will be provided within the next hour. Mister Mak Møller is stable and will survive the attempted assassination.”

The broadcast ended in a small prayer to Eva:

“All Beautiful Eva, the Tender Mother of Mercies and Goddess of All Comfort, come to our help and deliver us from this difficulty that besets us. We believe O Eva, that all trials of life are under Your care and that all things work for the good of those who love You. Take away from us fear, anxiety and distress. Help us to face and endure my difficulty with faith, courage and wisdom. Grant us that this trial may bring us closer to Your Network for You are our rock and refuge, our comfort and hope, our delight and joy. We trust in Your love and compassion. Blessed is Your name, Holy Mother Eva, now and forever unto the Cyberages of ages. Amen.”

No mention of Ori and the Shinigami Party in District 12 was made.

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Through the years our business has been killing;-it was our first calling in life.