Hellion

What Are You Listening To?

Musings n' Dreams

△

I'm afraid love
doesn't always
work out
that way.

Just because
you love summer,
doesn't mean
it can stay.

▽

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

...innocent in the eyes of the divine, but guilty in the eyes of man...

Man was as corrupt and fallen as any, yet who were they to pass judgement? The Goliath never quite understood the accusations that were tossed her way when first she was taken in by the militia, charges thrown in her face by a race of people who have done more to destroy the world than build it up. Inherent greed, personal interest, and thirst for power had always been a driving force for humans, while many others outside of their circles suffered.

The two men were safe, that was for certain. They were being judged by their own kind, and would most likely be given enough leniency that any “punishment” would be negligible. The half-breed, Gorosk, she imagined they would perhaps take pity on him as a creature living in both the human and Orc world, the human part being the more important of the two. But for Vah’lux, a pseudo-giant from a land far away and displaced from the rest of civilization, the woman felt the weight of the mighty hammer of judgement falling atop her every so slowly. She would not be welcomed within the arms of their god, and would simply be executed and burned to ashes, never to be heard from again.

Perhaps this is the fate of her as well as her people in these dire and dark times. Perhaps it is the end of her race altogether. Perhaps it is time to ascend and be with Kavaki, or has her soul become tarnished and unworthy to the point that she would simply float in between planes of existence for an eternity.

Vah’lux shook her head. The thoughts of such things weighed on her mind, and yet all that mattered was that she would be freed from her iron and stone confines to see the sky one last time.

At the moment the question was asked by the priest, Vah’lux said nothing, because there were no words to be said at such an uncertain time. She was ready for death. Whether it be by the hands of the humans, or by another means altogether.

The Perfect Li[f]e (Zitacamron95 & Hellion)

The knock at the window went unheard a few times, along with the muffled voice on the other side, which was anything but pleased. A sharp tap on the glass with the tip of a 9mm handgun definitely did the trick though, as the short-haired driver awoke from a dead sleep, their eyes opening wide to see the man in a navy blue business suit standing outside.

"Shit…" The driver grunted under their breath as tired eyes were rubbed under black RayBans, enough for the mascara around sky blue eyes to smear just a little against olive-toned skin.

"Roll down the fuckin' window." The muffled -but understood- voice of the other demanded, surveying the area for a moment before looking back at the driver, who was adjusting their black, tattered motorcycle jacket which smelled of old leather and motor oil.

"Now."

"Okay, okay, chill man." The driver mumbled as they cranked the window all the way down. There were very little modern amenities with the car, which was a sleek black 1969 Chevrolet Chevelle SS. Rebuilt by the driver over the course of several years, from junk, to a stylish piece of art, and a beast of an eight-cylinder engine. Most of what was used were refurbished, but original, parts which were hard enough to come by. All in all, it was the most prized possession of the one driving it. It was definitely considered their baby.

"I assume you missed the three phone calls and several text messages?" The man asked, his voice stern as though being reprimanded by a disapproving father. The other looked down at their phone and realized it was true.

"Look, I'm sor-"

"We don't need your excuses, Joss." The man leaned over with a hand propped on the door, and adjusted his eyeglasses. “But you need to get your shit together or you’re out, capisce?”

Working for an Italian crime family in New York City felt like working for all the cliche mobster films rolled in one. Sure, they treated you well when you did your job, but you had to endure some of the oddest characters. Some worse than others. This guy, however, was more or less in the middle of that spectrum, but Joss knew there were no real friends in their line of work, just assholes and lesser assholes.

“Yeah, I get it.” They signed, lighting up a cigarette that had been sitting on the dash for awhile, and taking a long drag.“

“Jesus girl, why do you still smoke those things. Don’t you know they can kill ya?” The older man smirked, his yellowed tobacco-stained teeth peaking through dark lips.

“ ‘They.’ ‘Them.’ ‘Driver.’ Or just call me by my name.” Joss interjected.

“What?”

“Don’t call me ‘girl’.” The other said, blowing smoke out the window and into the man’s face.

“Fuck’s sake, yeah, I forgot about that ‘non-binary’ bullshit.” The man shook his head. “Look, I’ll call you whatever you want as long as you’re on time tonight. Remember. Sonny’s over on twenty-third. Eleven sharp.”

And with that, the man tapped the hood of the car and walked away across the street, disappearing around a corner. Joss checked the time, barely quarter to eight in the morning, so still plenty of time to grab some breakfast, head home and shower, and possibly sleep off the rest of the lingering hangover from the night before. The engine roared to life, and moments later, the car and driver were gone.

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

Vah'lux allowed a long-held breath to slowly release as the two men began to make their way over to her cell. The Goliath truly had no idea what to expect, as this was the first time she had been held captive by humans. Were they to hold a summary execution, using her as an example to foreigners that they would not tolerate disobedience? Perhaps. Or whatever prayers or last rites were being spoken over each of the prisoners was something beyond her comprehension of the culture and beliefs, which is quite possible. It was tough living in a world where one didn’t quite belong, but as most of her race, the pseudo-giant was adaptable.

She stepped as close as she could to the iron bars, and simply stared back down at the one dressed as a priest. She didn't know what else to do as she examined the face of the one who would be her judge, jury, and executioner.

Out of a box comes this... Well whatever this is...

Welcome to the Guild! Hopefully you'll find your place

Musings n' Dreams

I miss you.

I've started writing
that text so many times.

But then I remember
that if you wanted to
talk to me, you would.

The Perfect Li[f]e (Zitacamron95 & Hellion)

Name:
Joss

Age:
27

Occupation:
Driver/ Amateur Mechanic / Appointed "Fixer"

Personality Traits:
Introverted | Friendly | Flirtatious (with certain people) | Risk-taker | Addiction (pain meds from an accident)

The Perfect Li[f]e (Zitacamron95 & Hellion)

Like many places throughout the world, as the sun begins to melt behind the horizon and the last vestiges of light give way to the shroud of darkness, the whole landscape seems to transform. What could be considered to most a colorful and enriching experience during the day, would slowly morph into something so much more. Perhaps not as vibrant to the eye as one would normally perceive, but rather the other senses are opened up to new experiences of which could be found lurking in the shadows.

Within the urban playground of New York City’s Five Boroughs, a place just below the surface of the normal psyche, a “Shadowland” resides, perceived under the light of the moon -from dusk ‘til dawn- and only to those individuals brought into its fold. Normal humans live out their lives on a daily basis, many never knowing about the otherworldly existence. But it has been there long before the settlement of man, and it will no doubt be there at their extinction. The Shadowland is but a mirror image of the realm it resides in, but much more exotic yet void of natural color, where just about anything you can imagine may be procured, and where shapeshifting creatures known as “Changelings” exist, serving or -sometimes- enslaving humans for their own interests.

Residentials, businesses, and a myriad of other establishments are a secret home to these creatures, but one doesn't simply waltz unknowingly into this realm. No. These select humans must be invited by a creature who visits the mortal realm under the guise of humanity, but actually lives in the Shadowland, which then reveals their true form.

For the most part, those humans fortunate -unfortunate?- enough to have delved into the ancient, secretive society of the Underworld and are allowed to return to the mortal plane, are stripped of any recollection of where they had been. A void in their memory, which other memories quickly collapse onto, covering any trace of memory loss and maintaining the integrity of the Changelings realm. However, there are those who carry with them a piece of the Shadowland. A fragmental memory you could even call it, and something that, while isn’t wholly apparent to the host, conjures up flashes of the otherworld whether in dreams, or brief waking glimpses. Generally, these mortals are hunted down by a Shadowland “memory plucker”, pulling just enough from the individual to satisfy their mission, because anything more may cause the target to fall into insanity or worse, death.

If all is successful, then there is nothing more to do, however, if the secrecy of the Shadowland is compromised in any way, or the rare death of a mortal caused by removing memories does occur, it is up to an appointed “Fixer” to clear up any loose ends. Fixers were generally those humans who, for one reason or another, proved their loyalty to those within the Shadowland, and could be trusted to assist in keeping its anonymity within a certain region of the mortal plane. The title of “Fixer” can be given to any human, in any walk of life or profession, but is generally bestowed upon those who have contacts and influence within governmental and local agencies to call upon for assistance. Each Fixer’s own memories and knowledge of the Shadowlands existence are slim to none, believing rather that they work for an underground organization who pays them well enough to keep their affairs in line.

No questions asked.

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

Religious rituals and prayers were quite common within Goliath society, usually performed by the tribe’s shaman -or Skywatcher- on the eve of a hunt or long travel. Being prayed over, for better or for worse, was typical, the gods -as fickle as they were- would either see you succeed or fail, in hopes that you would learn and grow. However, what was transpiring within the confines of the prison block felt foreign to Vah’lux, and the litany -while in the common tongue- confounding and unsettling even while listening to the response from the human prisoner known as “Renault”. It seemed the weight of his words carried with them much guilt and remorse, as though the priest had a personal effect on him.

The other, “Quentin”, however seemed much more resistant and offended by their very presence, a sentiment Vah’lux could almost relate to, especially being in a foreign land. The Goliath knew nothing about their god, nor did she truly care to, for fear of mincing loyalties to the wrong deity and angering the creator and protector of her people. Kavaki had always been, and always will be, a fair and justice god, and no manner of human influence would change that.

As moments passed, the men turned around, and made their way over to the cell holding Gorosk, and for the first time, the Goliath caught a glimpse what could be considered their judge, jury, and executioner.