Rockette

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@Akai no Senshi - Haven't seen or heard anything from you in a while. Everything well? c:

I'm sad to announce that I believe @Symphoni has left RPG. Checking her profile yielded a status update and custom title reading: "I'm gone. No longer around." So, for now, Beatrice will be joining the out of commission characters until if-and-when she returns.

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My post won't be up for some odd hours yet - still at work. So you lovelies have plenty of time.

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@Hellis - This is why we can't have nice things!

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@Hellis - You broke her. ; ^;

{Closed}

Y T O N E

^{"Deliver her from the sins of her Fathers; deliver her naught from her own depravity."}

Armistice — Eastern Gate — 250 — 8 / 8

^{And so, my dearest . . .}

Flush and rouge blossomed over pallid cheeks, wide blemishes of heat searing with the blood quickening to the membrane as shell lips lolled wide, exhilarated with quick inhales sliding between both parts equal in their pout. Rapid successions of sounds marred the silence, swelling into a canopy of exhales swathed in the intimacy of moaning splendor.

And the weeping lines beaded with her desire, and she watched as they began to cry.

In the shadow of the eastern quarter, she almost blended into the thicket of oppression in the colours of black. Only indicated by the pallid skin that exhibited her foreign genetics, her Origins long and far from the thriving continent and the city fostered like some pompous gem in the splendor of bustling denizens and the vast pocket that conceived coin and nourishment. Fine threads swallowed her nearly whole in the gloom, charcoal pieces fluttering around thin shoulder hunched forward, eclipsing the quick repetition of her motions as silverite enchanted with malicious mana carved fluid lines into the canvas of her skin. This was ritual, tradition, this was controversy bathed in red and pain, and it was a balm to the quaking consciousness teeming with poison and spite. Her fingers curled, muscles twining into a flex as she dipped into the last section of her self-infliction and pried away the jaded silver long tarnished with time and blood. Her product was a completion of knots interwoven with another, illustrating grace into the complexity of thick and thinning lines now aflame along the breadth of her thigh. Her lips parted, tasting the heat of her own essence before she impaled the enchanted stick back into the wild mane of her ebonette hair and momentarily disturbed the trinkets laced within as she swept herself back into proper function.

Ytone was well aware of the risks she had underwent to ensure that her daily practices were ensured, but little concern coloured her expression as she fixed the robes of her nether garments to conceal her wound and made double efforts to cinch the leather bindings on each of her legs until her fingers turned bone-white at the knuckles from her harsh lacing. To the company of Armistice, she would appear peculiar in her adjustments, to the kith and kin somewhere in the tragedy of Goro, they would know that she was fumbling in anxiety that corded her soul in a vice. When she had first arrived, silent and busily studying the patterns in the road by prints and trails, she had not been anticipating such an assemblage of individuals, in truth, Ytone had been expecting individuals of... Well. Her expectations were bred by the education of her sires, and thus far her knowledge had only provided acknowledgement of three Orders of note—worthy deduction, and the sparse inclusion of others that didn't grace her with any worthy impression. Her anticipatory assessment had been on both dual sides of brigands and glory—hunters and knights gilded in both gold, bronze and silver.

As it remained, Ytone had immediately swept off to the wall, to hug it literally with her close proximity to tend to worship in the lines of blood and pain and felt elevated for it. Filing leather-draped hands through the thickness of her ebony tresses, the Goro resident finally left the sanctity of shadows and gloom and joined with the rest of the potentials for the particular quest. She pondered on their intentions: fame, glory, riches? Did they seek and share the same ambition of her unholy Mother, were some inducted under the pretenses of their own callings and leader — or did they not have a decision? Ytone considered every possibility, but to inquire out right would suspect her own purposes, and to glean over the desires of the Padmavati would garner her betrayal and punishment by the Gaki.

Thick leather made her shudder when flush against her newly engraved sigil, but her face did not reflect the sway of her body as she crossed her ink-laced arms at the leather blanketed over her chest, skin against skin as her laced limbs rested at her scarred mid—drift. Most were already induced into conversation, but it did nothing to deter Ytone until the aroma of herbs swept up and blanketed her sensory passages in their odor. She blinked owlishly as the man — Enclave, she corrected — busily began brewing tea, holding out individual offers in simplistic pewter dishes. Jaded silver briefly twinkled with curiosity as she delicately plucked the cup from his gesture, ebony nails clacking against the malleable, metal alloy until she tipped it up to her lips and gradually sipped. The flavours were petite, relaxing, spilling down her throat on reflex when she swallowed and examined the contents with a swift eye.

The only tea she was familiar with often spiked with... unsavory ingredients.

That memory alone brought another twinge to her thigh and she rolled her weight into her opposite leg, hip cocked as she took another taste of her beverage and spoke around the lip of the mug.

"Fine brew, scholar." She spoke aloud, the husk of her voice muffled by the press of metal against her parted mouth. Through another indulge of the tea, she examined the rest of the troupe, from gargantuan warrior to the swarthy elf engaging with him; to the sisters alike bathed in auras of flame; to those hesitant to partake of useless dribble before the initial embark of the quest. Ytone took careful consideration in their given armour and weapons sheathed, deduced that within her thoughts and silently glanced forward, the glimmering of her silver eyes begetting the swell of her mind already beginning to whir.

Mother would like them. . .

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All right lovelies, plot post coming tomorrow after work! ♥

TO THOSE THAT KNOW ME

Thank you for letting us all know, you better return to us safe and sound and please get well. We'll be waiting! ♥

The Wolven Storm

There was one luxury that Thdris Tholyr would never grow weary or out of love for: the aroma of the Realm.

It was plethora of scents and particular perfumes of foliage, soil, that was interwoven with a tang conceived on the rituals of villages and towns, each heralding their own traditions that bathed their streets in conceptual colognes. It was a particular fondness that was incapable of being thoroughly explained, unless one held a fancy and notion to explore the depths of her consciousness. A simper laced with amusement towards her brief self-reflection carved eager dimples through the finest hairs shadowing the strong ridge of her jaw, lifting up towards the edges of her perpetual smirk cradling the constant presence of her bitter oakwood pipe. Smoke of pallid indulgence hazed in front of wine eyes fringed in bruised skin and creases barely forming into the ecru of her complexion, the whiff of the herb laden in the pocket of her pipe inducing a cloud of spice that nearly stung the occulus if not cautious. Thdris knew very well the notions to keep such from occurring, but it did nothing against the fluttering in the back of her throat that eventually swelled to a burn, she coughed — one, twice — clacked her pipe against the polished armour of her mount and sealed it off with another hacking of her smoke—pattered lungs much to the distressful whine of one gargantuan canine. His beady eyes of polished marble spoke legions to Thdris as they trudged along, only some odd—leagues ahead of the main contingent of the Company.

“No worries Tormalk, just enjoying this delicious herb from the Imperial City.” She quipped, unlacing the depths of her fond, greedily endowed pouch and proffering the contents to her four-legged companion to take a gander at. The ebonette dog eagerly thrust his snout into the sack, only to let out a sharp yelp and immediately retreat, his irritated nose twitching madly with sneezes and huffing rebuttal that caused the Dwarva woman to bark in a round of boisterous laughter.

“Good, in’it? Can’t find this outside the Imperial pomposity. What did that she-wolf call it, Drakeweed?” She spoke aloud, her voice eclipsing over Tormalk’s continuous sneezing as he loped at her side, always to her right and two paces behind Durduum.

It was a commonality that the trio of woman and beasts trailed ahead, often scouting out the roads intersecting through the plains and forestry and relaying missives of information usually bound in the quick succession of barks from Tormalk’s lolling tongue. It was a code of quick interchanges to one, or two bays that equated to: “clear” and “unsafe.” Of course, a quick eye to the spanning of wood revealed that another was making sure to examine the country side, and she did nothing to deter his scouting. Thdris long knew better than to disturb the man and Tormalk’s unease around him was enough testimony for the two to keep their distances. Durduum seemed unfazed by such, but often he was ignorant of most of the Company, utterly endorsed in Thdris’ fondness and spoiling inclination on a daily basis. She tended to deny being persuaded by the Dire Boar’s.. charm, but who could perceive the exact routine of a Ranger and her mount’s relationship.

Thdris smiled fondly and leaned to with her leather-bound fingers parting through course hair and scraping against tough flesh laced with scars and looped with copper rings. Durduum squealed in delight as a jealous yip piped up at her hip, earning an affectionate grace of her opposite hand to appease Tormalk. She glanced up, hands upon the crowns of her companions, and eyed sparse of greenery plagued with remains of destruction and chaos. Such visionary stations were familiar to her, by origins and years sworn into the Company, but the representation of raids since past still swathed Thdris in a cocoon of silence and respect for the dead pocketing the soil as macabre fertilizer.

Tormalk let out a loose peel of whines, each accentuated with his displeasure from the odor of rot and decay that assaulted his leathery snout. The Dwarva’s glamour faltered just, a brief glimpse to the quiet sadness that enveloped her countenance in privacy before masking over into a facade of stone — unmovable and chiseled with a purposeful tilt of her mouth. Further across the smell that violated the previous aromas she had been appreciating was the familiar bank of the river and cradled by the waters was Orvston. She had been in the city once before, moons ago, and not much had altered by the fringe of the wall, aside from the woe located just beyond such in these fields. Thdris glanced over the fur blanketed over her shoulder, knowing that the rest of the Company would soon crest over the hill by the vibrations carried through the soil. She churned one thick leg, digging her heel into Durduum’s heaving flank to encourage the Dire Boar to turn about and join the numbers at the ready.

Heavy trudges signaled Thdris’ return accompanied by Tormalk’s gaping jowls as he panted, still visibly bothered by the stench of death. She gave her war—hound an apologetic glance as the mercenary troupe traveled ahead just a bit farther before inducing the functions of setting up the encampment. Thdris’ dismounted, landing with a quiet ‘oof’ with knees bent and giving full comparison to her standing beside both Dire Boar and hound — the differences were staggering, but not much a surprise. She barely crested four feet, much to the constant amusement of her pack mates that earned a thick hand against their back sides or a cleverly placed herb in their bedrolls. The latter was much easier to peg on some of the younger whelps, much to Thdris’ following amusement — no regrets. Although she often made up for her whimsical indulgences, it still garnered exasperated sighs or barely—there chortles of equal hilarity.

Ah well. . .

Thdris carefully escorted Durduum between those dismounting from their own charges, mindful of his tusk range and whistled for Tormalk to follow suit before he could indulge in his own antics and ease through knapsacks and saddle bags. She often pitched up her own tent far enough for the sake of both Durduum and Tormalk’s peculiar habits of.. Roaming. The Dire Boar was nearly impossible to pen and the war—hound was just as difficult to contain. At least, she claimed such, the reality was that anxiety cored the two animals thick when in the presence of the Elves wreathed in the taint of the Will. It was only by Thdris’ often persuasion to keep them corralled long enough through the night until the next sun before their traditional morning scouting; to shake off the peculiar waves she received from the magically inclined. Pitching up the tent next was a chore enough, utilizing both of her companions’ strengths and heights to loop rope around their battle adornments whilst she guided them and pulled taut on the materials until satisfied.

It was in the final processes of shedding Durduum’s battle gear and armour that a familiar face peeked around, eyes immediately falling on Tormalk who barked, immediately bounding up to the orphan child and sniffing around her eagerly. She was silent through his greeting, well familiar with the gargantuan dog and Thdris’ could glimpse the smallest of smiles etched there, making one of much larger proportions to eclipse across her face.

“Hello deary, got something for me?” The Dwarf inquired, stomping up close and nearly meeting the orphan on eye-level. Tormalk quieted and reclined to his hocks, the hammer of his tail eagerly thumping the ground as small hands passed over the missive and immediately occupied themselves by clasping over the black hound’s head, returning affections.

The words were of a cryptic intention, pulling an arched brow from Thdris as her leather twined hand smoothed over the prickle of facial hair before sweeping into a thick fringe tangled from the journey. It was ominous, that was for certain, but comforting in that lack of explanation — she expected none else from the Captain, and that consistency was a balm and comfort to the Dwarva.

“Well, I’ll be off. Keep them company will you? Tormalk loves company — apples in the packs.” Thdris supplied, leaving the runner to her companions and immediately making head to the Captain’s tent per the summoning. Her arrival was announced by her footfalls, heavy and akin to a stomp, much to the disparity of those of silence and shadow, but Thdris minded not as she slipped inside, finding that most had already gathered. Figuring herself to be the final arrival, she crossed thick arms at her breast and notched her chin up, indicating to the entire lot of them.

“What’s all this then, ey, Captain?”

The Wolven Storm

@Hexaflexagon- No worries! I know how it is. c:

The Wolven Storm

I've no qualms catching up if such is preferable, regardless Thdris and her lovely pets will be written and edited when I'm available. Sometimes I wish I worked earlier hours. Ah well.