Member
Trying to figure out the Windwitch's exact location in relation to the other 'legends'. Geography is, evidently, not my forte.
- Last Seen: 7 yrs ago
- Joined: 9 yrs ago
- Posts: 122 (0.04 / day)
- VMs: 0
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Username history
- Corvidae 9 yrs ago
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Recent Statuses
9 yrs ago
Current
you're gonna have a bad time.
9 yrs ago
dealing with my responsibilities? more like *ENDLESS, AGONIZED SCREAMING*
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Bio
| ABOUT DAT BOI |
crow | female | 18
✨☆ graduated top of my class from hogwarts school of bitchcraft and misery ☆✨
✨☆ graduated top of my class from hogwarts school of bitchcraft and misery ☆✨
Most Recent Posts
Hi, the name is Dawnscroll and I was wondering if it wasn't too late to join. I can see you guys already have a tight knit group and a story well underway... but just from reading your stuff, I'd regret it if I didn't at least toss my hat into the ring. Is there anything I could do/write that might be a vote in favor for squeaking in at the last second?
I was one of the original expressers of interest, and I just got around to posting in the IC today, so though hold no influence over the GM, I figure you'll be welcomed with open arms.
Also! If, in the future, anyone would want to do a collab, for some inexplicable reason, don't hesitate to ask! Crow needs more people to kick the shit out of her and remind her she's not the gods' gift to the world.
...Man, I'm sure glad I extracted my head out from up my ass and got a post out. Listening to this is kind of hilarious.
Epic combos for the win!!!! The calamity can already create great fire waves to consume her enemies, now imagine that boosted by the windwitch's power xD This is a perfect match for maxumum coletaral damage and lot's of partying~~ shame most people still cannot grasp the beauty in blowing stuff up xD
They'll be spoken of only in hushed, frightened whispers, I'm sure, hahaaaa.
Plus, Crow is eternally down for blowing stuff up.
I like it! My foxy lady also woke up, causing quite the havoc around her, though in her case she was locked underground and had not the sun blinding her eyes xD I have a feeling those two will hit it off quite merrily with lots of entertainment going on when it's possible! HOORAY FOR PARTIES!!! With lots of rum!
I should hope so! Fire and wind ought to make for an interesting battle combination, I think.
First IC post up! It's riddled with errors, I'm sure, and all kinds of choppy, but it's done. Next post will be better, I assure you all.
Also, if you're wondering why Crow's taking all of this so well, she's a tad unhinged. You know, in case that hasn't been made abundantly clear.
Also, if you're wondering why Crow's taking all of this so well, she's a tad unhinged. You know, in case that hasn't been made abundantly clear.
T H E S T O R M C A L L E R R I S E S
The darkness cradled Crow securely with all the maternal tenderness of a loving mother. Tendrils of sweet, sweet nothingness enveloped her like a warm, plush blanket. It was nice, she figured, because this - whatever this was - meant she didn't have to think. Not thinking was not dwelling was forgetting, and so long as she didn't forgive, wasn't letting a few irrelevant details elude her okay?
(it stung it hurt it fucking hurt godsdamnit why couldn't she just fucking forget why wouldn't it just s t o p )
Besides, there was something awfully liberating about shedding the shackles of the waking world. She didn't have obligations, nor was she obligated to make accommodations, and perhaps her faulty upbringing was to blame, but she really wasn't seeing the appeal of that whole 'survival instinct' shtick.
This was fine. This was positively fantastic! Everything was fine, this was great, and she, Crow, bullshitter extraordinaire, was perfectly okay with this outcome.
what a fucking liar. what a useless, piece of shit liar. it hurt. it still hurt. it hurt, it hurt, it HURT.
Maybe, if she could continue to drift away, descend into this darkness just a smidge further, she'd start to mean it.
Consciousness abruptly slammed into Crow with all the cheerful, persistent indifference of a rabid bear, and the wind, over which she thought she'd held such absolute dominion, rushed out of her lungs in a sharp, whimpered gasp.
The legends always claimed resurrection was easy, that one slipped back into one's body delicately and smoothly, that one wouldn't flinch, stumble back, and crack one's head on a pier as soon as their battered, exhausted eyes met gentle sunlight. Apparently, what felt like an eternity marinating in the void wrought absolute havoc on one's eyesight. Who'd have thought?
The legends, she was rapidly beginning to believe, were flighty, vindictive whores.
A sore arm clumsily darted up in a vain attempt to shield bleary eyes from the sun's harsh, unforgiving glare, and as those eyes muddled their way through a cautious, tentative blink, she became immediately cognizant of two things.
Firstly, the bruises blossoming on her legs were beginning to sprout bruises of their own, and secondly, she was - she was alive. She was alive, she was whole, she hadn't met her watery demise at the teeth of some ravenous sea beast, she - she could breathe.
Her hands rose, fingers quivering, cupping her throat almost reverently. A gentle breeze whisked past, caressing her cheek with all the enthusiastic glee of a long-lost lover. The wind tugged at her braid, tousled the loose, errant strands framing her face, and rustled her attire, those soft fabrics and boiled leathers tinted those particular shades of blue and black to which she'd always been partial.
The skies were alive, wind churning at the ocean in a fashion so eager it bordered on celebratory.
"Holy shit," she rasped, the words stumbling on parched lips, voice hoarse and rough from disuse. A cough bubbled up in her throat, smothered only by the wave of manic, incredulous laughter.
(Her fellow pier-walkers, skittish fellows that they were, gave her a wide berth, clutching their ramshackle assortment of fishing accoutrements almost warily.)
They probably thought her mad, embroiled in some sort of grandiose delusions. Under normal circumstances, this sentiment most likely would have rang true.
Also under normal circumstances, she probably wouldn't have cared. But that was okay.
(liar, liar, liar, it's not okay, it's never okay, she hates this. she hates all of this.)
That was beyond okay.
(she hates this. she hates her, hates that damned king and that damned spy. but most of all, she hates herself.)
She was alive, damn it!
(it stung it hurt it fucking hurt godsdamnit why couldn't she just fucking forget why wouldn't it just s t o p )
Besides, there was something awfully liberating about shedding the shackles of the waking world. She didn't have obligations, nor was she obligated to make accommodations, and perhaps her faulty upbringing was to blame, but she really wasn't seeing the appeal of that whole 'survival instinct' shtick.
This was fine. This was positively fantastic! Everything was fine, this was great, and she, Crow, bullshitter extraordinaire, was perfectly okay with this outcome.
what a fucking liar. what a useless, piece of shit liar. it hurt. it still hurt. it hurt, it hurt, it HURT.
Maybe, if she could continue to drift away, descend into this darkness just a smidge further, she'd start to mean it.
Consciousness abruptly slammed into Crow with all the cheerful, persistent indifference of a rabid bear, and the wind, over which she thought she'd held such absolute dominion, rushed out of her lungs in a sharp, whimpered gasp.
The legends always claimed resurrection was easy, that one slipped back into one's body delicately and smoothly, that one wouldn't flinch, stumble back, and crack one's head on a pier as soon as their battered, exhausted eyes met gentle sunlight. Apparently, what felt like an eternity marinating in the void wrought absolute havoc on one's eyesight. Who'd have thought?
The legends, she was rapidly beginning to believe, were flighty, vindictive whores.
A sore arm clumsily darted up in a vain attempt to shield bleary eyes from the sun's harsh, unforgiving glare, and as those eyes muddled their way through a cautious, tentative blink, she became immediately cognizant of two things.
Firstly, the bruises blossoming on her legs were beginning to sprout bruises of their own, and secondly, she was - she was alive. She was alive, she was whole, she hadn't met her watery demise at the teeth of some ravenous sea beast, she - she could breathe.
Her hands rose, fingers quivering, cupping her throat almost reverently. A gentle breeze whisked past, caressing her cheek with all the enthusiastic glee of a long-lost lover. The wind tugged at her braid, tousled the loose, errant strands framing her face, and rustled her attire, those soft fabrics and boiled leathers tinted those particular shades of blue and black to which she'd always been partial.
The skies were alive, wind churning at the ocean in a fashion so eager it bordered on celebratory.
"Holy shit," she rasped, the words stumbling on parched lips, voice hoarse and rough from disuse. A cough bubbled up in her throat, smothered only by the wave of manic, incredulous laughter.
(Her fellow pier-walkers, skittish fellows that they were, gave her a wide berth, clutching their ramshackle assortment of fishing accoutrements almost warily.)
They probably thought her mad, embroiled in some sort of grandiose delusions. Under normal circumstances, this sentiment most likely would have rang true.
Also under normal circumstances, she probably wouldn't have cared. But that was okay.
(liar, liar, liar, it's not okay, it's never okay, she hates this. she hates all of this.)
That was beyond okay.
(she hates this. she hates her, hates that damned king and that damned spy. but most of all, she hates herself.)
She was alive, damn it!
Because I love to procrastinate, I made this instead of writing my first IC post.
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