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HereComesTheSnow Member
dehydration expert
STATUS: trying to find the "golden ratio" of weed and ozempic to cause my appetite to stack overflow and reactivate the long-dormant photosynthesis gene from that 50% of DNA we share with plants. will update 12 days ago
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12 days ago
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trying to find the "golden ratio" of weed and ozempic to cause my appetite to stack overflow and reactivate the long-dormant photosynthesis gene from that 50% of DNA we share with plants. will update
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1 mo ago
many people dont know this but a good cue for deadlifting is to bring your chest up and lock your lats for proper spinal stability. this also applies to interacting with gorillas i'm told. testing no—
2
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3 mos ago
yeah i work in area 51, it's pretty chill. usually you just get a tweaker roll by on a "spiritual journey" once a month. they tend to go away once you put a few AIM-9s downrange on their flying saucer
2
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4 mos ago
man is closest to god after an ice cold beer in the warm shower. his mind and body are freed. next closest is behind the wheel in a scool zone, also with an ice cold beer in hand. study this well.
3
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5 mos ago
yeah mom its me can you come pick me up me and the boys were wondering if pulling a potato peeler over tommy's behelit would wake up the little guy in there and it started screaming.. thanks love you
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Yeah , sorry if I jumped the gun on anyone. In the middle of a six day block of work so I wanted to get it out ahead of this.
happy thanksgiving to all my american friends. i hope you ate well and enjoyed quality time with those you loved
"Good, you're not a coward." he flippantly intoned from the stove, "Otherwise I'd have to toss you in the fridge, Danaye. Akhmat zila."
Mechanically turning over the bacon and setting the water into another swirl, Jonas couldn't deny his appreciation of the sentiment his sister had laid out, inside jokes about the cowardice of weight-cutting aside— for all they were trumped up to be, the faculty were in the end little more than an obstacle. A bump in the road that they could collectively climb over, maybe not so easily as those gathered here would think, but surmountable all the same.
And yet.
"Yeah, fuck 'em. I reached the same conclusion when you got here."
One by one, another set of eggs were cracked into the simmering vortex. He looked up from the pot for a moment, steely eyes seemingly set on boring holes through the kitchen's walls and out towards something a horizon away. Rebekah was sharp enough to understand their position as he did, naturally, but what he and she were thinking seemed to be a different story. It was inevitable, even disregarding that they simply processed information differently (as any two people would). Their stakes, their personal investments, their aspirations— all were definitely distinct.
"It's just the principle, I guess. You'd think that here, of all places, my chasing Herakles would be fostered and encouraged, but it looks like I was mistaken."
He removed the bacon, now sufficiently crisp, and toasted the remaining muffins.
If there was one commonality, it was that they were both here simply because they had to be, and simply because everyone around them that they cared for was as well. He didn't know what Bekah's goals were. What she dreamed of. Flippant as she was, they certainly had nothing to do with OA. She shared none of his expectations, however flimsy they had become in the five years he'd held onto them. He didn't know if even she had laid any dream out yet, but what he did know were his own.
"I'm just having to face that reality now. It's been in front of me for a long time, just tucked away enough to ignore, but after today it's slapped me in the face and spat upon my boot."
Lofty ideals, shining images upon the hills of Elysium that were immortalized in human memory through their deeds, through their valor. He wanted to count himself amongst their number. He had been blessed with great power, and had thought that it would be cultivated better nowhere else than here before he threw himself into the world to use it, wholeheartedly, for good.
Their rebuke was by all rights a tacit rejection of the notion.
As if he were childish for thinking of it at all.
"I guess I shouldn't be surprised at having to carve my own path, seeing as I always kind of figured I would. It's my own naivete that's in eating at my head the most. In that regard, I guess their punishment may have worked a little on me after all— Just not quite how they planned it."
Another platter slid onto the table, having been assembled as he multitasked.
He folded brawny arms, and leaned against the counter as his assembled guests either ate or set themselves to work on his best friend's luggage.
"Now I just won't expect my skepticism to ever be shaken. Or a thank you. So with all that said,"
He managed to smirk again.
"I don't really care what kinda mess you make of his stuff, but make sure you leave mine alone. Might get kicked out sooner than we think. I'd hate repacking."
Really don't know why I feel like I have such trouble balancing my character consistency with not being rote. Need to work on nailing down what I've already established so I can avoid this "am I just retreading?" sensation. Hate all this second-guessing
Gerard Segremors
Evening again.
As luck would have it, apparently Sir Jerel had a far better grasp for their young Captain's mind than Gerard did: he had ridden out once again into the tawny orange and gold of dusk at the behest of Fanilly Danballion, just as the falconer had predicted. Maybe he shouldn't have doubted his position after all. Maybe it was just a mere coincidence. In any case, at least this time was towards a simple social outing, rather than combat...
So you'd think it would feel.
While the ball offered much lower stakes than even a straightforward mission like that of two evenings prior, and the reassurances of his fellow knights that the many intricacies of polite society were not so expected of him in this setting as he had believed, he still couldn't quite shake an unease within himself. The Spikes of Aimlenn, despite being full of attendees that were doubtlessly eager to see the Iron Roses, were an isolating place. So much finery, livery, and nobility. So little here that he knew beyond his own comrades. Half of the people here would have employed him seven months ago, and now he was milling about as honored a guest as they. If he was thankful for the familiarity of riding to battle, then this stuffy atmosphere only served to further highlight the sentiment by contrast.
A stranger in a strange land.
As if it were not embossed enough by his attire. That hadn't changed much, either.
Sagramore Gellért, at heart, had never really expected himself to so quickly be attending a party so prestigious as one hosted by the Princess. Even after being accepted into the ranks of the Iron Roses, the young man's mind was awash with reasons as to why he wouldn't be selected to make such an appearance: he was a newcomer, he was a humble villager by blood, he had been a rowdy mercenary by trade— the list was exhaustive. He most definitely was of the impression he would have much more time to prepare himself truly formal garments.
A hand, adorned in plates of painstakingly polished steel, adjusted the rust-colored cape that hung over his left pauldron, tied in a manner almost akin to a fancier and less warming scarf. No wind to catch it and make a mess of things, but surely getting it just a bit more out of the way would be fine. Just enough to ensure no entanglement upon anything, come what may.
It was a blessing that the Princess had evidently wished to see some of the knights' arms and armor on display tonight. How gracious of her to offer such a perfect sidestep of needing to buy some gaudy tunic out in the city earlier that day, all epaulets and frills and price and garish dye. He'd need to get it done one of these days, but for now he could make do after cleaning up what armor he had to the utmost. All it really took was a little more attention put into the usual daily maintenance of this warfighter's ensemble, and he was... at least presentable.
I think. Certainly it's what I know, but I think I've made it look nice enough. Though, steel and leather at a Royal Ball is probably always going to be an oddity.
He smirked dryly, sipping from a glass he had picked up at some point. A crisp sweetness to the liquid came with a hint of spice beneath that carried warmth down the back of his throat. Best be careful of that.
"At least the Captain's harness is suitably ornate... Not to mention complete."
As for Gerard himself, he had been well fed, well bathed, and well rested in the day they'd had to prepare. A little less fatigue beneath the eyes and a little less chaos in his short black hair made for, in his mind, the best he looked all week. There was little that could be done regarding scars, but they were thankfully small and faint upon his skin, and mostly covered by either gauntlet, gorget, cape, or cuirass.
Ah, well. Here we are.
He had done what he could to prepare. What happened now was all up to Reon's guidance and his own instinct. He had faith in one, but hoped neither were so capricious as to lead him into playing the fool. He wouldn't dare do the court jester's work for free, after all. Better to simply be as he was, not swerve into another's path.
All the thinking was making him peckish. With any luck, one of his fellows would be scouring the platters of food too— certainly some camaraderie would help the night go by much more smoothly. If he was to be in such a crowd, the least he could do for himself was to not feel so alone.
Plus, some of that pie looked tasty as hell.
I’ll go with the flow
all good man, stay safe out there
maybe this'll help out
Gerard Segremors
"The Bandit King? He was..." he began, searching for the words across a moment. Even with forgiveness for his humble upbringing leaving a man of plain speech, it took him a few moments longer than he would have meant— The smells of the kitchen were now dancing upon the air in force. Overpowering even the pungent herbs of Sir Jerel's bandage and the musk that clung to Gerard's own armor, the knight found himself suddenly cognizant of a ravenous hunger that had crept upon him. It was a yawning chasm within his gut, and with it he could feel the beginnings of a similarly hollow ache upon his head.
Always after a fight, when his blood had calmed. That he had compelled himself to train afterwards would only make this worse, like diving into the fray again with an empty stomach. He was lucky that he'd run into Sir Jerel— now that he was aware of how his body hungered, Segremors had no idea how he would have survived a bath with a head feeling like a log beneath a woodsman's axe.
Opening the door to the kitchens, he continued.
"It was trying to fight a storm. I only made one real attack before Artificer Elodie set him ablaze and our assorted group fell upon him, but he was strong, like an angry bear. If I had taken a swing of his with any power upon my sword it'd have snapped clean in two— I got lucky enough to only get parried the once, at the start of his movement."
Flashing images of smoke, steel, and sparks passed through his mind as he inclined his head in greeting to the wily veteran Sir Indrau, and a moment later spied the familiar blonde locks and casual gait of Sir Jarde. The former he had not had much chance to speak with, but knew to respect his obvious tenure in spite of his injury. To simply still find oneself on the battlefield alive, after all his years, was proof enough of the wealth of experience that the eyepatched knight possessed.
As for Devaron—
A brotherly clap on the shoulder for him.
"His strength by itself would have made it a questionable fight for me, were I on my own." he continued, inhaling deeply through the nose as the telltale savory aroma of searing beef filled the air, accompanied by some bevy of herbs and spices he couldn't name— well, aside from Paprika, but the Kitchens of the Iron Roses were far more expansive than that.
The maids are working some magic, huh?
"But what struck me was that he possessed more than just raw force. Not only did he carry a blade the size of... well, you or I; he was quick enough to react to three, maybe four attacks from wildly different angles, and deft enough with that man-chopper to turn each aside simultaneously. He may not have been a proper knight, and I don't even know if I could tell the difference between his and my technique in either potential direction— but he wasn't braindead. Be it through training or just some base, bestial instinct, the bastard knew what he was doing."
He allowed an open grimace to show, exhaling just as fully as he had inhaled.
Or, perhaps he simply couldn't help but show it.
"If I learned anything, it's that I need to grow much stronger if I want to face monsters that walk as men like him without backup. If I have to, I should say. Paladin Tyaethe could likely have handled him, from what I know of her— but a fighter like me has much worse odds. I'd need to find a perfect opportunity, after a perfect approach. Anything less and I'm cleaved in half along with my sword."
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