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Bean Queen

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5 yrs ago
Wraith smells like beans
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7 yrs ago
Conspiracy Theory: Mahz will never return from vacation.
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Bio

13 years and going strong.

I'm waiting for the moment someone in my city mentions roleplayerguild as their hobby.

Most Recent Posts

In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 5 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@estylwen
Pros: Liz gets attacked by a hottie
Cons: Liz gets attacked, and he thinks that her hair is fake

One question!

Is that a bolt to kill?
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 5 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Elysium Island


Liz was extremely grateful to have made it to the ground level of the mansion undetected. She figured Schmidt thought that since the grounds were so well protected that the inside didn’t need it. Bad thinking on his part, considering what she had aimed herself for as she snuck through the hallways.

Two sets of feet up ahead had Liz ducking into a doorway, pressing herself into her hiding spot as she heard the steps draw near. She held her breath. Two heads of blonde hair neared, but turned down a separate hallway leading outside. The women’s manic grins flashing for an instant as they looked at each other. Liz released the breath she’d been holding and thanked the Hound that she hadn’t been seen. Especially not by blondes with an unhinged air about them.

She stepped forwards into the hallway and found herself coming up on an open set of doors. As she peeked around the corner, she looked into the bar room and did a quick scan of its occupants. No one of note caught her attention, and with no one looking towards the door she quickly slipped past it and continued on her way.

She was nearing the main lobby now, where she knew the machine gun sat aimed for the front door. She shook out her sore wrists at her side as she decided the best course of action. Taking a moment in an empty doorway to breathe.

She could be subtle. A few undead could take out the man stationed at the gun, and then she could use the gun to mow the door down and hopefully take out some of the guns outside. It would conserve energy. Energy she knew that she would need to get herself off of the island without injury. Yet it would draw the attention of the undead outside to her, and she was just one woman.

The other Black Lux adept would know she was on the island either way, so what was the point of subtlety outright? Wouldn’t it be better to go all out at the start, and then tone it down once most of the threat was taken care of?

She took a breath.

Perhaps somewhere in the middle would work best. One big distraction, and then she could slip out with a smaller group of her undead to protect her. Maybe she could slip out the way those two blondes had gone. Steal a boat. Get off this damn island.

She knelt down to the floor, her knee slipping on the smooth surface thanks to the oil. Her palms pressed against the ground to regain her balance, and she focused. Her emotional field spread into the depth below as she summoned. Her eyes closed, putting full concentration into her spell.

The flooring in the hall before her began to crack and burst. Forty pairs of hands began to shove their way through it as her undead emerged from whatever hell she’d summoned them from. Two sets of large hands emerged next, and the opening in the flooring grew wider as two of her golems followed the thirty undead into the mansion.

She stood as tall as she could get, looking over her small army before nodding. Her hands gestured towards the main lobby. They knew what she’d summoned them for.

The forty undead entered the lobby first, taking the brunt of whatever attack the man at the gun would throw at them. The two golems followed behind, their feet thudding against the ground. One aimed for the door, intent on breaking it down. The other went straight for the machine gun, taking a few hits before it wrenched the gun off of the ground and held it in its arms.

The remaining thirty undead, having taken care of the guard, turned to shamble their way towards the front door.

The first golem shoved its mighty shoulder against the wood and pushed, and soon the doors burst open. The second golem stood behind it now and aimed its machine gun towards the army outside.

It pulled the trigger, and began to fire in a swinging arc at the machine guns outside of the door.

Meanwhile Liz took cover behind a wall and kept a lookout for any unwanted attention from inside. The chaos she started now overwhelming the front of the mansion.

"Sycamore better take advantage of this."
In Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP → 5 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: An Empty School - Dundas Island
Human #5.028: Birds in Their Little Nests Agree
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Harper @Qia
Previously: In No Man’s Land & A Rotten Egg


Final Night on Dundas Island

The two women bound by unfortunate fate slowly made their way from the beach to what once had been their shared house’s dorm. The silence that fell between them was heavy with the weight of the final words passed between the Blackjack team. Burdened even more by the continued string of unspoken words that tethered them together.

The only sound that carried them through the abandoned campus was the wind blown in from the Pacific. It ruffled their hair, and would have ruffled feathers if the wings were still attached.

Sisters.

The only similarity between them was their eyes, the shapes of their cheeks, nose, and jaw. The genetics given to them by their father.

Haven was a spirited thing, led by her heart and not her mind. She’d worn it on her sleeve despite its flaws and vulnerabilities. Years ago she’d learned how to keep it hidden, protected, and reticent. It had been necessary to keep her heart in one piece; to keep her strong and resilient. She’d hidden it away until she found solitude in abandoned cabins, in the mountains, and eventually she found a place that accepted her for the wings and heart she carried. She bore it proudly, then. Unafraid of showing the passions and heartaches that laid within. Vowing to never hide her heart again.

Now… her heart felt fractured and fragile. Much like a baby bird’s egg that had fallen out of the nest right before it hatched. Vulnerable to the world that waited just across the water behind them. It had been torn asunder the night of the dance.

Her tired eyes drifted over to her sister as she worried for the state of Harper’s heart. The brunette had always kept it so expertly hidden, but surely it hurt too? She was sure that it was still vulnerable despite the walls Harper had erected around it. Would the path that Harper had chosen for tomorrow take her somewhere it would be safe?

“Harps,” she spoke, her voice almost a whisper against the quiet of the night. “Where… are you going, tomorrow?”

Why don’t I know? Why hasn’t she seen me since I woke up? She wondered, although she didn’t dare ask the questions aloud. Her arms wrapped around her chest as if to soothe the heartache of it.

Harper didn’t flinch at Haven’s question, though her pace slowed almost imperceptibly, each step suddenly feeling heavier than the last. She could feel Haven’s gaze on her, searching for something Harper wasn’t sure she could give. Her sister—her little sister—didn’t need to speak again for Harper to understand the meaning behind her words.

It was concern, worry, and something deeper, maybe even hurt, as palpable as the salt clinging to her skin from the ocean breeze.

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening as the response she knew Haven wanted sat at the back of her mouth, stubbornly refusing to come out.

Why can’t I tell her?


Maybe it was because she hadn’t fully faced it herself, hadn’t let the reality of her decision settle into her bones. How could she explain it to Haven when she hadn’t even come to terms with it herself? The future loomed large, an indefinite shadow that stretched endlessly ahead of them, and Harper didn’t have the answers. Not for herself, and certainly not for Haven.

Her hands curled into tight fists at her sides, the tension creeping up her arms and landing on her shoulders, making her movements feel stiff and unnatural. The act of gathering her thoughts seemed impossible, like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. I’m not good at this, Harper thought bitterly. Expressing what she felt had never come easily to her. It was easier to build walls, to keep everything locked behind layers of stoic composure. But Haven had already lost so much—her wings, her sense of safety, her confidence in the world they once thought they understood. Could Harper really add to that burden by laying her own uncertainty at her sister’s feet?

No. No, she couldn’t.

The brunette cleared her throat, still avoiding the question for a moment longer, feeling the pressure building. And then finally….

“The Foundation,” Harper said, the words feeling clinical, detached. “Decided on it just then, actually.” She had made up her mind. Right there, on the beach, amidst the chaos and bitterness of everything that had transpired with the team. It wasn’t a decision she’d made lightly, but it was one she’d made nonetheless.

The soft sound of Haven’s sneakers against the ground halted for a brief moment, but continued nonetheless. It wasn’t a surprise that most of Blackjack had chosen the same thing. There was nowhere for them to go that would take them in so willingly. Nowhere in the world that guaranteed any semblance of safety.

Haven, on the other hand, wasn’t sure if she could follow her sister and friends there even if she wanted to. What little she’d heard about the school from Alyssa made it obvious that she wouldn’t be truly welcomed within those sterile, white halls. What horrible things she’d heard of Amma’s history there, and her own terrifying experience with the man who had inflicted such cruelty onto the raven-haired woman, made the very mention of attending the school set the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck straight.

She was afraid of how she would live once she left Dundas Island, but she was even more afraid of what might become of her if she chose The Foundation over the uncertainties of the human world.

How could they accept a sub-class that didn’t even possess the trait that made them one? What would they think of the nubs on her back that had once been beautiful, graceful wings?

Did Daedalus still haunt the deepest levels within the ocean?


She bit her lip as another coastal breeze filled the silence between them. If she wasn’t so worn down, so tired and lost to grief, she would have started an argument. She would have mentioned the reasons why she hadn’t chosen to go. She would have argued that it was just as safe as the mainland, no matter what the recruiters had told them throughout the last week. She would have asked Harper to come with her and Rory, instead.

The tone of Harper’s voice suggested that it wasn’t something to argue, anyways. The words were final. They were objective. Harper was going to The Foundation whether Haven liked it or not.

“Do you think we’ll be able to keep in touch?” The question was hesitant. An implication lingering in the wake of her words that Haven wondered if Harper even wanted to keep her close despite the distance that would be between them.

The idea of keeping in touch seemed fairly simple on the surface—like something they should want, something sisters would want. It was something Harper might have genuinely liked. But the reality felt different, messier. She had always been good at compartmentalizing, at tucking away the parts of her life that didn’t fit the narrative she wanted to keep safe. Everything had its place: her memories, her ambitions, even her regrets. But Haven? Haven didn’t fit into one of those neat, labelled boxes. There was no tidy corner where she could be stored, safely out of reach, yet always close enough to remember.

The truth was, Harper didn’t know if they’d stay in touch. She wanted to say yes, that they’d talk regularly, that the distance wouldn’t matter, but that wasn’t entirely up to her. The Foundation might have its own rules—its own ways of severing connections with the outside world. She imagined faceless administrators cutting off all outside communication, forcing her into isolation once she stepped foot inside. For all she knew, they might not let her communicate with Haven at all. That doubt hung over her like a dark cloud, making the thought of saying anything more than “I’ll try” feel like a lie. What if her words became another empty promise, something she couldn’t keep?

I don't want to be alone.

And as before Harper didn’t voice this thought. Couldn’t.


“I’d like that.” She couldn’t give Haven anything more solid. Still, it had to be enough for now.

The answer was indeed enough for Haven. It eased the ache of uncertainty in her chest, just enough that she felt a touch of warmth blossom in her chest. She felt wanted. Even if they didn’t truly feel like sisters, they would still remain friends.

They walked in quiet for a few minutes, Haven only speaking up again to notify Harper that they were nearing the dorm. Harper nodded in turn then let out a small, awkward laugh.

“I haven’t forgotten about it, by the way,” she said, “The sketch.” She scratched the bottom of her chin, feeling a pang of embarrassment creep in. “Although…” She hesitated, a sheepish smile forming on her lips as she felt the irony of the situation hit her. “I hadn’t taken into account the whole not seeing thing.”

Haven had been caught off guard by the sudden outburst, but as she saw the small smile creep onto Harper’s features she felt herself relax. She was relieved to see Harper express some kind of positive emotion after what they’d been through. After what they’d both lost.

“I can look for it, if you remember where the sketchbook is.” She offered, although she didn’t want to just take it from Harper so easily. “I didn’t forget it, but… I know his drawings must mean a lot to you. I’d understand if you wanted to keep it.”

Haven hadn’t known him, after all. What good would it do for her to hold onto a piece of a ghost? Would it ease any of the sorrow that surfaced with the thought of him?

Harper felt a twinge of reluctance. The plan had always been simple—give Haven one drawing, just a singular piece of their shared history. Something small but meaningful. A moment captured in their father’s careful lines, a memory preserved in ink. The image of Haven, her laughter frozen in time, had seemed like the perfect gift when they were in the infirmary. Back then, it had felt right. It had made sense.

But now, walking side by side with Haven in the quiet stillness, Harper wasn’t so sure anymore. The one drawing felt too small, too insignificant for everything they had endured. After all they had lost and all the questions yet to be answered, Haven deserved more than a single memory—more than a brief snapshot of what once was. She deserved something real, something that carried the weight of their father, of their connection, of the past they had both been trying to make sense of in their own ways.

Harper’s fingers twitched slightly, the hesitation creeping up her spine. The sketchpad had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember, a physical tether to her father and everything he represented. It was more than just a collection of drawings; it was her connection to the man she had lost, a reminder of the life that had slipped through her fingers the day he was gone. The lines, the smudges of graphite, the detailed care in every stroke—it was like holding a piece of him. Yet, as she walked beside Haven now, Harper sincerely wondered if she needed it anymore.

Maybe it was time to let go.

“I think…the last time I looked at it, I’d tossed it into my closet,” Harper admitted. It felt strange, saying it out loud, as though her words were cementing the decision before she was fully ready. Her hand slipped into her pocket, fingers brushing against the cool metal of her keys. There was an unexpected sense of finality in the motion as she pulled them out, letting them dangle from her hand before extending them toward Haven.

“It…wasn’t helping anymore.”

Haven’s gaze lingered on the keys for a moment before she took them from Harper’s grasp. She fiddled with them between her fingers, beginning to understand what Harper was implying but afraid to fully accept it until it was spoken.

“Let me help you inside.” She murmured, and the two began to ascend the stairs to the Strigidae dorms for the last time. She kept a wary eye on her sister. Always standing within reach should Harper need help finding her footing. Yet she knew Harper could do it on her own. She knew the determination and strength that Harper possessed would get her over any obstacle.

It was something she had grown to envy over the last month.

The two reached Harper’s room and Haven slipped the key into the lock. She held the door open just long enough for Harper to find her way inside before shutting it behind her. As she turned to the room, she allowed herself a moment to take a breath before moving over to Harper’s closet.

“It’s strange how quiet the dorms are tonight.” She said absentmindedly as she opened the closet door. She glanced over the inside before beginning her search. “What color was the cover of the sketchbook?”

Harper’s lips curved into a faint smile at Haven’s question, though the ache in her chest made it bittersweet. She could picture the sketchbook perfectly in her mind, every worn edge and faded spot on the leather cover that had softened and grayed over the years. Each time her fingers had traced its frayed edges, she’d felt a little closer to her father, as if his hands had left a mark on the pages that only she could sense. That book was more than paper and ink; it was history, memories pressed between its worn covers like flowers kept for their beauty long after their time had passed.

“Black,” she murmured, her voice carrying a note of nostalgia she hadn’t intended. “Well, black-ish now, I guess.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “More gray, with all the wear.”

Sorting through the various possessions Harper had not chosen to pack, Haven fell silent as she felt a mix of eagerness and apprehension about finding their father’s keepsake. An internal storm thundering suddenly as she skimmed the worn edges of a leather sketchbook. Her fingers withdrew, gnawing on her bottom lip as she came face to face with something he’d left behind. What laid inside would make it real. It would justify the pain within, as much as it would make it worse.

Slowly, her fingers wrapped around the spine. She drew it out of the closet, holding it like something precious as she turned to walk over to Harper’s bed. “I think I found it.” She murmured as she laid the leather onto Harper’s comforter. Her eyes traced the fraying edges of it, noting the most worn places where it had been held countless times.

She ran her hand over the texture of the cover, took a deep breath, and opened to the first page.

The sketches were beautiful. Little moments in time that their father had decided to capture in his point of view. Each sketch was a little different than the last, with little details that expressed how he must have felt drawing them. It was just like how Harper had described him, really. A family man, kind, caring, loving, but some of the images showed how he felt at his core. How he was also complicated. Sometimes his art was rigid and textured, and other times his art flowed so smoothly that it was hard to tell when one stroke of his pencil ended and the other began. Each sketch was marked by his signature in various scribbles and flicks of the wrist.

“You know… I found myself wondering what it could have been like if he took me in.” Her voice was gentle, almost lost to her thoughts as she shared this piece of her with Harper. She hadn’t told Rory yet, how she’d laid awake at night thinking of the home that the two sisters could have shared. She turned to the next page, and found herself looking at a view of a perfect country house. Two little girls playing in the grass before their home.

The thought of her father taking Haven in had always hovered at the edges of Harper’s mind since she’d learned the truth about her family. It was one of those silent, wistful dreams she’d carried without really admitting it to herself, let alone saying it out loud. Now, hearing Haven voice that same wish stirred something raw and unguarded within her, as though a carefully hidden part of herself was suddenly laid bare. A life where they’d grown up together under her father’s care, both safe, both basking in his warmth and guidance—it was a fantasy she’d held close, never quite willing to confront it fully until now.

“I used to think about that too,” she confessed, a faint smile finding its way to her lips. She glanced at Haven, genuine affection softening her expression. “You know, if you’d been with us, you might’ve gotten roped into our little weekend ‘missions.’” An easy laugh escaped her as the memory surfaced, more vivid than she’d expected. “Dad had this idea that we should always have an adventure planned—something ridiculous and barely thought out. One time, he decided we’d build a treehouse in a single afternoon to go with the swing already there. No plan, no blueprint. Just us, a few planks of wood, and way too much optimism.”

She shook her head, finding comfort in the absurdity of the memory. “We spent hours hammering and balancing wood, arguing over who got to design which part. I insisted on painting it, of course,” she added, her smile widening, “and somehow managed to get more paint on myself than on the boards.” Her voice softened as she looked back on it all, her expression distant but affectionate. “We never actually finished it. I think there’s still a lopsided mess of wood somewhere out there if the wind hasn’t blown it down by now.”

Harper looked at Haven, the tenderness in her expression no longer hidden. “You would’ve fit right in,” she said softly. The story was just one among countless others her father had immortalized in his sketchbook, but it captured so much more—a piece of a life that could have been, a glimpse of the family they both might have known if circumstances had allowed it. At that moment, Harper realized that Haven truly deserved more than just one isolated memory. She deserved the whole story, with all its messy, beautiful details, and its jagged fragments of a life shaped by their father’s steady hand and kind heart.

Harper took a breath.

“Which is why…” She hesitated, feeling the gravity of her next words. “I think you should have the whole thing. To find your place in those memories when you’re ready to.”

The smile that grew on Haven’s face as she listened was wistful, but it was a smile nonetheless. Silent tears framed her cheeks as she looked in Harper’s direction. “That sounds nice.” She began, trying her best not to let her sister know that she was crying. Until the ache in her chest became unbearable. “I’m gonna miss you, Harps… You’ve always been just a set of stairs away.”

She wiped at her tears with the sleeve of Rory’s hoodie, one quiet sniffle giving them away. Harper would be an entire country away by tomorrow. She wasn’t even sure when she’d be able to call her, if she could even reach her beneath the ocean. There were so many uncertainties ahead of them both. Ahead of everyone in their little-found family.

As Haven’s muffled sniffle drifted into the silence, Harper felt a strange warmth stir—a softness, almost like the glow of remembered light. It wasn’t something she saw exactly, but rather something she felt echoing in her mind, like the memory of sunlight through closed eyes. It was there and gone in a heartbeat, dissolving into the stillness between them.

She tucked the feeling away without much thought, telling herself it was just the sense of her sister close by, the familiar comfort of a moment she wished could stretch on forever.

“Yeah…I’ll miss you too.” Harper paused, her hand pressing gently against her own heart.

“But you’ll always be right here, no matter where I end up, Little Dove.”


In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 6 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Elysium Island


Liz hadn’t been in St. Portwell more than a day before getting swept up by the madness of the factions within it.

She hadn’t even met up with Drake Blackmore yet. Had not met the famed Sycamore Tree Coven that her cousin had been a part of. She wasn’t even sure what their current goal was, besides Drake’s mentioning of a meeting to discuss notes that had been stolen from them. Important notes. Notes that held a secret that might get justice for Alyssa Burns.

Yet from where she sat now, gleaning information from an undead mouse as it moved between parties, she was starting to get the gist of it all.

She’d channeled her magic into its carcass where it had died within the basement room she found herself in. An unfortunate thing for the mouse, but very fortunate for Liz. It was a small, unnoticeable thing, thankfully requiring little effort, and she managed to get it all the way to the upper levels just in time to see some of the island’s inhabitants in action.

She’d seen a bald man exiting the mansion as he carried a staff through its eyes. Who knows what trouble the artifact would cause.

She sent the mouse outside first, where she was surprised to see a militia of undead standing guard. It wasn’t a surprise that a Black Lux user was on the island, given the grandeur of it, but it definitely meant trouble for herself and the Coven. Considering the amount of undead, it had to be a powerful necromancer to summon them all for as long as they would be needed. But who was it that summoned them?

Near the entrance to the house, the mouse let her see multiple machine guns, but what she saw once the creature scurried under the massive front doors to the estate made her frown. A machine gun aimed right for the front door. Men from one of the gangs of St. Portwell, armed to the teeth in many different weapons and bulletproof vests, stood around a woman with white hair as she laid out their plans for the evening. She willed the mouse to quickly scurry beneath a large vase by the door as she listened to the woman’s commands.

A guy named Jin and his goons on the roof. A black haired hottie and another set up outside with the rest. A lab… with more hot guys outside it.

What did Sycamore take from them? What’s so special about this Lancy chick?

The group began to move on to their specified positions before any more information could be revealed. Liz’s mouse carefully followed the white haired woman, Lancy, and the deliciously hot men with white hair towards where she now figured the infamous notes would be kept under lock and key.

The sound of a storm erupting outside of the mansion nearly made her lose her focus, but who the mafia group met next caught her attention again.

Liz’s hands clenched into fists as the group was joined by a tall, butch man with a cane, and none other than Blake Schmidt, king of the shithole she was stuck in. The mouse followed them down, down, and even past the room where she was locked inside. Down, down, until Blake opened his mouth and announced that they had arrived.

Her mouse hid in a doorway nearby, and it watched as Blake tapped magical runes with a curious orange light, and allowed her a glimpse of what was inside. Magically enhanced equipment cast in a blue hue by the overhead lights. No notes in sight as the door shut behind them and left the hotties outside with their colleagues.

Liz sighed, and allowed the mouse to crawl under the door it hid by. She released her spell, and the carcass soon became an empty shell on the floor once more. Returned to rest.

She opened her stormy blue eyes, and now she looked upon the room before her with a determined gaze. It seemed like the Coven were on their way. She’d found herself at the perfect place to meet up with them, too. But with the way things were going up top, she wasn’t sure if all the manpower and undead above were overkill or if the Coven and their friends truly posed that much of a threat to Blake and his cronies.

So, what could she do to help them? How could she prove to Drake Blackmore that she was worth his trust? He’d reached out to her in the hopes that she was anything like her cousin, and she needed to show him that she was.

Well… she could do that once she found a way out of her predicament.

Her predicament, of course, was obvious with the way her wrists and ankles bound tight against her pale skin. Whoever Blake had working under him snatched her from outside of Lyss’s apartment that morning. She’d already been disappointed that she left it empty handed, but to immediately run into trouble after that just left her frustrated.

Not even a full day in St. Portwell and her cover was blown. She wasn’t even sure how it had happened.

What made it even worse was the fact that they’d dragged her to this place and stuck her in one of their freaky island rooms. They said she was supposed to wait here for the after party. Something about the “main attraction” of the night once they succeeded in their plans. She wasn’t going to stick around long enough to find out what that meant.

Her nose wrinkled as she realized how she could get out of her bind. Sure, she could have had the undead mouse chew through the rope before, but of course her mind was too busy wondering where the hell she was to think of it. So, she was left with one option now. One gross, but possible way to free herself.

She frowned as she scooted herself over to a shelving unit, where bottles of Johnson’s baby oil sat on the shelves by the dozens. The other half of the room had shelves of lube, too. She definitely didn’t need to find out first hand why he needed this much of either.

“Schmidty’s a real freak.” She muttered.

A moment of struggle with her bound feet and soon she had pushed off her mary janes. Even without her shoes she couldn’t wiggle her ankles free. She’d have to go all in, if she wanted to free herself. So, with a huff, Liz turned to the shelf and grabbed onto it with both hands. She pushed her rear end off the floor, while her hands slowly pulled her up until she stood at her meager height.

“Please don’t go all over me.”

She took one of the bottles off of the shelf, popped the lid, aaaand proceeded to get it all over herself as she aimed for her arms. She gasped, dropping the bottle onto the floor where it splashed onto her feet and ankles and soaked her socks.

“Fuck. Great. It got in my hair.” She frowned as she looked down at her oiled up clothes. She wiped her face off with her hands and shook them out in front of her to let any excess oil drip off of them. “This better work.” Because if it didn’t she was going to be pissed.

“Thank the Hound,” she soon said as her wrists slipped out of the rope with ease. She grabbed onto the shelving unit, starting to wriggle her ankles free without a thought for the slippery floor. One popped loose, and in her success she forgot to watch where she put her feet.

She slipped, and it sent her careening into the shelf. Which proceeded to topple over, knocking over nearby shelves until half of the room was an oiled up mess of busted bottles and fallen shelves. Liz, now sitting in a pool of baby oil, cursed as she rubbed her sore rear end.

I gotta get out of here.

Carefully she crawled over to her mary janes, leaving a trail of oil in her wake as she made it onto a dry bit of flooring. She’d at least been smart enough to make sure her shoes would be clean of the oil. So she popped them on, adjusted the tightness around her slippery socks, and gingerly made her way around the pools of oil until she made it to the door.

The lock was easy work for her once she pulled the bobby pins out of her slick hair. Her black and white tresses fell limply around her face as she stuck the pins in and twisted them around until the lock clicked. She dropped the pins onto the ground, pushed her sticky hair back, and took a deep breath.

“Time to cause some chaos from the inside.” She muttered, before she pushed open the door and turned for the upper levels.
In Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP → 6 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Location: PRCU? - Dundas Island
Human: #5.020 A Rotten Egg
Interaction(s): Blackjack
Previously: Mourning Dove


Something about the way Rory looked back at the fire told Haven that her apprehension was valid. While she was scared to face the truth of Katja’s betrayal, and what that would do to her already fractured resolve, she was more worried about how this reunion would go if Rory chose to confront her. The team wouldn’t take it well. They were already standing on thin ice as it was, and she was sure this was the final crack in the foundation that would send the Blackjack name under.

All she could do was turn her gaze back to the flames and wait. Her anxiety manifested in the way her muscles began to tense with each heavy footstep taken behind her. One step closer to the pain that the truth would inflict upon the already broken souls around her.

As Harper spoke up, Haven turned empathetic eyes onto her blindfolded sister where she sat nearby. It hurt her to hear Harper’s pain so freely expressed after all the times the brunette had kept her feelings under lock and key. The blindfold was a painful reminder that Harper had also lost something at the dance. It hurt even more that Harper said she didn’t want to be alone, especially after the way her sister had left her a few days ago and hadn’t visited her since.

Another thud against the sand behind her.

Cleo’s voice saved her from dwelling on her fragile relationship with Harper. Instead she worried what the Foundation might do with someone who had her gifts. Her mind wanted to assume the worst, but she had to remind herself that Cleo wasn’t like her. Cleo wasn’t a sub-class, so she would be safe there… right?

At least Lorcán liked to believe the Scot would be.

She could hardly look at the island boy where he sat across the fire from her. His molten eyes seemed to glow above the flames. This school, this piece of the world, was all Lor had known his entire life. Compared to the rest of the team, this place truly was his home and now he was being forced to leave it. The Roths lost their jobs and their land in one fell swoop. She was aware that there were many reasons that led to the end of Pacific Royal. It probably began a long time before Hyperion came to power. Yet for the attack at the dance to be the final strike upon its name, all because he had come for her again, it made the guilt on her shoulders feel even heavier.

Thud.

The strangers that approached them then; what they had to say… It only made Haven shrink into herself. How they had found Amma’s ring, how there were rumors about the attack spreading throughout the lingering student body, how the man’s eyes looked at the injuries among them– looked at the empty space on her back, and how the woman with hair like moonlight wanted to make sure one piece of their lost friend remained with those that had known her best. She tucked her knees into her chest and hugged them to her, her eyes avoiding the glint of the ring as it sat in Gil’s remaining hand.

She felt an ember of anger burn within her at the same time Gil’s fury drove him to leave them.

It was snuffed out the moment Banjo spoke his name. A spike of fear drove itself into the center of her back and what was left of her wings ached with the memory of being strapped to Daedalus’s operating table. She saw his twisted grin, and she heard the horrible way he cooed her name as if he was standing behind her. She held her breath to keep her heart from racing, and yet her hands still trembled where they clutched her sweatpants.

She’d noticed how Banjo hadn’t looked her way since he arrived. She’d noticed how he was drowning himself in beer. She wasn’t sure what he was grieving, no one had told her of what Banjo went through at the dance, but she heard the anger in his voice as he made the horrific vow to hunt the mad scientist down and bring him to justice. She could hear Gil making plans of his own in the distance. While she couldn’t say the same for Olyphant’s plans, she hoped that Gil would find what he was looking for. He seemed to have been the only one to truly know Amma. To know Ammaranthe.

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she simply stared into the fire and let the brightness of it burn her retinas.

Thud.

She braced herself as Katja finally made it to them. Prepared herself for what Rory might say to her, what he might ask her, and how the truth might break her own heart as it was laid bare. She swallowed as Rory spoke for the first time that evening. Her own head turned to anxiously look up for the tall blonde’s reaction, but what came pouring out of her lover’s mouth was not the truth but a cruel and twisted version of it.

Her jaw dropped, and disbelief was clearly written on her face as she turned her head towards Rory. She no longer cared about how Katja might react to the truth. Not while the kind man she knew so well had suddenly become someone entirely different before her eyes. She gasped as he used what she’d been through against the blonde, her trembling hands reaching for Rory’s where it was white-knuckled on his wheelchair as a silent plea to stop.

Yet all she could think about was the way that Katja had held her hand as they made their way forwards in the trial. The strength behind the grip, as if holding onto her for dear life. How she’d looked at Haven and told her things were going to be alright after the room had burst into flames.

She couldn’t have known, right? She wouldn’t have led them into it knowing what horrors awaited them like that. Haven didn’t want to believe it.

Rory was relentless, though. She’d just barely pressed her hands against his when she felt him push her away. She pulled them back to her like she’d been struck, unable to console him in his anger as he viciously tore into their teammate.

She knew that Rory had cared for Katja just as much as he cared for her before the trial. She understood that the pain of this betrayal was worse for him than it would be for the rest of them. What she didn’t understand was the way the corner of his lips formed a smirk as he prepared his final blow.

What he said left her stunned.

Chaos immediately erupted following his confrontation, but Haven’s wide eyes remained fixed on Rory. This was a side to him she’d never seen before. A cruelness that she hadn’t thought him capable of until now. Her lips parted as she tried to find the words. Something to scold him with. Something to ease his pain. Something to say to Harper, or Aurora, to calm them down as they defended or confronted Katja themselves.

Even Banjo had something to say, while Haven remained speechless.

She could only feel her breath quickening, a thrum of grief and anger filling her ears the more everyone spoke, and the devastation left in the wake of their words. She finally turned her eyes away from Rory, then, looking towards their former teammate as one question finally clawed its way to her tongue.

“Did you know?” Her voice was breathless as she filled the silence left by Lorcán’s declaration. She stared at Katja with jaded green and golds, her hands still shaking at her sides as her stress manifested physically.

“Did you know that they messed with the trials before you walked with us inside?”
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 6 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled] → 6 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP → 6 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Two days after the Senior Dance... Infirmary, PRCU

Something was missing, and Haven couldn’t remember what it was.

A steady beeping greeted her as the blanket of a deep slumber began to slip off of her. She felt the scratchy pillow beneath her face, the stiff gown against her skin, and the blanket that covered her back. No warm, firm body next to her. No scent of cucumber and cologne. She heard the gentle breathing of someone nearby, but it wasn’t Rory’s deep draws and soft snores. She didn’t recognize it.

Her throat was dry, almost raw against the stale air she inhaled. Her muscles felt burdened by exhaustion where she laid on her stomach. The pressure at the middle of her back had her brows furrowing together. She’d used her wings too much last night. The liquor had been a self-prescribed painkiller for her healing joints.

Shifting her body onto her side was an effort itself. She winced at the pain in her wing as she tucked it into her back to avoid crushing it beneath her. It felt like the joints had been dislocated all over again.

It was a slow and steady climb for her hands to slip out from under the pillow and rub her heavy eyelids. She sighed as she managed to peel them open, finding the figure at the chair beside the bed blurry and unfocused until she managed a single, slow blink. The sight of the figure before her cleared, revealing Harper with full lashes panned low where she sat slumped in the chair.

Sister.

What was she doing by Haven’s bedside? What had happened at the dance to put her in the infirmary again? Where was Rory?

The confusion in Haven’s expression slowly became more evident as her eyes scanned the dozing brunette. She noticed the dark bruises peeking out of a sweater on Harper’s neck. She saw the subtle sign of worry etched into the dark brows. It was strange that Harper was sitting where Rory should have been.

She listened to their shared heartbeats as she tried to remember. Distracted only for a moment as she realized how the rhythm of their hearts beat in sync.

Sister…

“L-Little Dove.”

Her memories began crashing into her like birds into a glass pane.

"I need you."

The beeping of the monitor began to increase in tempo. She felt a weight settle onto her chest, pressing inwards, crushing her heart and lungs until she couldn’t breathe anymore.

“Mother.”

She heard the crack of Rory’s legs as they shattered and bent the wrong direction. She heard Amma’s shrieking fill the space with sizzling arcs of scarlet and black and silver. She remembered the sound of a body being torn apart above her. The horror she felt when she couldn’t determine if it was a clone or the real Gil.

Her heart rate reached a crescendo. Alarms blared from behind her that made her flinch and cover her ringing ears.

Only then did she feel the pressure of the blanket against her bare back. The place where feathers would have kissed her skin and kept it warm. The space where her wings should have been. Where they had graced her form ever since she was young. She still felt them, but they weren’t really there, were they?

A wave of misery and loss then consumed her as she relived the agony of her last conscious moment. The terror she felt as the monster held her in its arms. As it cradled her face like something precious before it inflicted the worst cruelty she had ever known upon her. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over.

It took her wings.

Clamped down on them with enough strength to fracture her bones, pulled them in opposite directions, luxated her joints, ripped flesh and cartilage and sinew, and took a piece of her soul with them. She had felt all of it all at once.

It took her wings. It took herwings.Ittookherwings. Her wings. Her wings. Her wings.

Broken. Destroyed.

She sat up in the bed hyperventilating. Disbelief crossed her features as she tore the wires and IV from her arms and chest in a frenzy and twisted her arms behind her back to feel them. They were still there in her heart and mind, and yet her fingertips brushed against smooth skin until they met the nubs that remained and the patch of feathers between them. The place where a gaping wound should have been was now covered in new, healed flesh. Tiny pin feathers already dotted them like new growth in a forest that had burned to the ground.

Gone.

A sorrowful wail filled the room then, leaking into the halls and scaring the other residents. Haven pulled her knees to her chest, her arms wrapping around them tightly. Anything to comfort her grief. She buried her face into the stiff blanket over them to block out the world, and began to mourn her beautiful wings for all that they meant to her...

...and for what little she was without them.

…

She stood in a long, narrow hallway, the walls suffocating her with dense, choking smoke that stung her eyes. Every blink sent wet, slick tears burning down her cheeks, relentless and hot. She tried to wipe them away, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, but it was useless. The more she tried, the more they poured, like a faucet that couldn’t be turned off. They carved down her neck, soaking into her collar, and she could feel the wetness pooling around her bare feet, like she was sinking into it.

Drip.

The sound was too loud in the thick silence, the only noise in a world that felt like it had shrunk to just this hallway. It stretched on forever, its oppressive quiet broken only by the squeak of her feet against the slick floorboards. Ahead, there was nothing but smoke and that faint glow of orange light spilling from beneath a door at the far end. It danced through the fog, beckoning her forward like a promise of escape, but something about it felt wrong—too bright, too unreachable. Still, she moved toward it, each step slow, dragging, her legs heavy as though the air itself resisted her.

Her breaths came in shallow, laboured gasps, the smoke filling her lungs like fire. Each inhale burned, her chest tightening with every second as the air thinned, constricting her throat, making it harder to breathe. She squinted through the blur, straining to make out the walls that lined the hallway, but all she saw were vague shapes lost in the murky gray. Picture frames hung along the walls—she knew they were important, memories maybe—but the details were lost, swallowed by the smoke. They were just dark patches now, filled with expressionless faces she couldn’t recognize.

The heat grew more intense the closer she got to the door. It wasn’t just hot—it was suffocating. The air thickened, pressing down on her from all sides. The liquid streaming from her eyes also slowed, becoming heavier, dragging down her cheeks with sluggish finality as it dripped off her chin and onto her chest.

Drop.

She reached out, her hand shaking somewhat as she brushed against the wall for support, but it was slick—wet with something that sent a shudder through her. She jerked her hand back, nausea twisting in her stomach, bile rising in her throat. She didn’t need to look. She knew what it was. She didn’t want to confirm it.

Just get to the door. Just get to the door.

Her steps faltered as the air became too clotted to pull into her lungs. Each movement felt like dragging herself through quicksand, her legs weak and trembling. The hallway seemed to stretch with every stride, the door at the end always just out of reach. By the time she got to it, her throat burned, her breath shallow and ragged, and the tears were unstoppable now, her vision little more than blurry shapes and flickering shadows. Desperate, she reached out, her fingers fumbling for the doorknob.

The instant her palm touched it, pain shot through her like lightning.

She gasped, yanking her hand back as if it had been scalded. The doorknob radiated heat, the door itself searing like an oven left on for too long. Her skin throbbed, but she pressed her hand against it again, forcing herself to turn the knob. It wouldn’t move. It was locked.

No, that’s what she told herself. Locked. Or maybe… maybe she wasn’t trying hard enough. What if the door wasn’t locked at all? What if she just didn’t have the strength to open it? Panic welled in her chest, icy fear flooding her veins. What if it wasn’t the door? What if it wasn’t the door?

Her throat constricted. She clawed at it, hands tearing at her own skin as invisible fingers wrapped around her windpipe. Her nails scraped at the hot wood of the door, then back to her neck, trying desperately to free herself. Her lungs screamed, each breath a painful gasp that never quite filled her, the smoke pressing in on all sides, swallowing her whole.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t breathe.

The world collapsed around her, swirling into a whirlpool of heat and suffocating smoke, and Harper screamed—a raw, desperate sound torn from the deepest part of her soul.

And then she woke with a start.

The scream echoed around her, closer, more distinct. A wailing so harsh, so painful to her ears that her hands instinctively reached out until her fingers brushed against something warm. She wrapped her arms around its form, feeling the tremors in her sister’s body as she sobbed. She pressed her cheek against Haven’s hair, her world still a blur with the dream fading into nothing.

Haven didn’t even flinch. She hardly felt the touch of another through the overwhelming loss that wracked her body and soul. Not until she felt the weight of her sister’s head against hers. That small gesture of comfort, like a silent way of telling her that she wasn’t alone, kept her from falling apart. It wasn’t Rory; it wasn’t home. Yet it felt like a place where Haven could seek shelter when she was far from him.

Any doubts Haven may have had about Harper’s feelings towards her blew away with the wind. She felt wanted. She felt loved. It was the family she could have had, what she deserved all along, and now that family was here to help her with her pain.

So the floodgates opened wide, and Haven leaned into the embrace. Her head turned to bury itself in Harper’s shoulder. Her hands clutched the arm across her chest and pulled it closer to her. She felt the other wrap tighter against her back, and her sobs grew louder as she thought about how it would have felt to be held like this with her wings still attached.

“My wings.” The pitiful words spilled out of her in a whine. “My wings.”

Harper couldn’t find the words to respond to Haven’s lament, no matter how hard she tried. It felt like the guilt had lodged itself in her throat, a burden she hadn’t been able to shake since the moment the Chernobog tore Haven’s wings away. She swallowed, her throat burning with the effort, and winced as the pain flared up, a searing ache spreading down into her chest. Amma’s hands had left their mark on her during the dance, the bruises still fresh and tender. But she’d waved off any offers of help, as if by ignoring the injury, she could pretend the pain didn’t exist.

There had been worse wounds, anyway—ones that had demanded more attention than a bruised throat or the blindness that came and went with her fractured emotions. She’d grown used to the unpredictability of the latter over time, accepting it as another part of her that was broken and in need of fixing. But Haven’s loss… that was different. It wasn’t something time could heal, at least not in a short amount of it, nor was it something Harper could simply adapt to.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as it scraped against the rawness in her throat. The words felt pitiful, as fragile as they sounded, but what else could she offer? She couldn’t bring Haven’s wings back, couldn’t rewind time and stop the Chernobog from taking what was treasured. All Harper had was the empty comfort of her presence, her arms wrapped around Haven like she could somehow protect her from any more pain.

It wasn’t enough. And she hated herself for that.

The apology was heard clearly, yet it didn't ease Haven's sorrow. She could only cry, and cry, and think about the last time she'd been able to fly over the island. The last time she'd touched a cloud. The view of Glacier National Park from above, and how colorful and serene it had been to soar over it's mountains during her summer break. She'd never see the world from her own unique point of view ever again.

Regret sat in her stomach like an anvil for things she hadn't done while she had them. Like how she'd never feel another's touch against her feathers again--

“Where’s Rory?” Haven suddenly gasped out as a moment of panic made her body tense in Harper’s arms. She would have thrown herself out of the bed, if she didn't feel so weak. “Is he-? Is he okay?”

“He’s... stable. Recovering, from what I’ve heard,” Harper replied tenderly, trying to ease Haven’s fears without feeding her panic with a reassuring tone.

The tension melted out of Haven's body with the words. Stable... recovering... at least she didn't lose him too. She wanted to know what happened with the monster, if she needed to mourn any other losses-- Gil, Luce, Alyssa, Torres, Amma, or any of the students that had been crushed by debris or frozen in ice-- but it was too much. There were too many questions, and she didn't think her heart could hold any more space for the grief that would come with the answers. It sent her into a fresh fit of weeping. A miserable feeling spreading through her body and taking hold of her just like the Chernobog had.

For a long moment, silence settled between them, broken only by the sound of Haven’s sobs. The cries that had once been loud and heart-wrenching softened, dwindling into quiet sniffles against Harper’s shoulder. Harper could feel the dampness of Haven’s tears soaking through her shirt, the warmth of her sister’s body pressed so closely against her own. It was then, in the quiet aftermath of Haven’s grief, that she let herself speak the words she’d been choking down since she’d taken up temporary residence beside her sister’s bed.

”I... should’ve done more. And before you say there was nothing I could’ve done…don’t.” It didn’t matter that the Chernobog had been near unstoppable. It wasn’t enough for her. Because, once again, she’d survived while those she cared for had suffered...or worse.

Harper’s words only made the aching in Haven’s chest worsen. She swallowed against her own sore throat, and drew a shaky breath before her soft words filled the silence.

“I’m glad you didn’t... It would have hurt you, too.” It was an oversimplification of everything Haven wanted to admit. Like how she knew the monster would have shattered or shredded Harper’s body and made her watch as it happened. How she’d seen Harper trying to separate the Amma they knew apart from her other selves. The image of Amma’s pale, inked hand wrapped around Harper’s throat was burned into Haven’s mind amidst the chaos of the dance. Even how much more miserable she would feel if she didn’t have Harper here to comfort her in her grief.

“Harps,” she whispered, “I know you’re my sister.”



Location: PRCU? - Dundas Island
Human: #5.005 Mourning Dove
Interaction(s): Blackjack & Eclipse
Previously: Dive For You


There was so much Haven could say to her teammates, her friends, her found family, and those of Eclipse that had been fated to join them had the school not been shut down.

She could tell them that she was grateful they’d gathered on the beach one last time. One more night to spend together until their flock would part ways in the morning. She could tell Gil how relieved she was to see him here, breathing through the misery, and how much it hurt that Amma wasn’t. She could let them know the plans that had been made for herself and Rory; how the couple agreed to take the leap of faith into the unknown together.

She should ask the others about their plans, how they’d come to that decision, or why they chose to go that way. She should let them know that she would try to stay in contact as much as possible, despite the fact that neither herself nor Rory had a working phone. She didn’t know when she’d find the money or time to get another for herself.

She had many questions, as always, but she also had so many apologies to say to them for the risk to their lives that the words formed into a lump in her throat.

So, she didn’t say anything at all.

She sat there by the fire with her eyes on the flames, on the waves lapping at the shore, or on the colors on the horizon as the sun dipped below it. She watched the seagull enjoying its hunt, how it maneuvered around the drone with grace, until its gift of flight made her sick to her stomach with envy and grief.

Her eyes moved back to the fire, blinking back the tears that she no longer had the energy to shed. She rested her head on Rory’s arm where it sat on the armrest of his wheelchair. It had been so strange to walk down to the beach with the others while Aurora ported him there. Strange that he hadn’t been walking beside her. Strange and awful that she’d been walking instead of flying.

One would think that her feet would hurt by now, for all of the walking that she’d done in the last week.

The nubs that remained on her back hurt, though. She wasn’t sure if it was an aftershock of what she’d been through, or just a symptom of her trauma. She could still feel her wings, as if they were still shifting behind her and tucking themselves in to avoid dragging in the sand. Yet she couldn’t feel the warmth of the fire on her feathers. She couldn’t feel the breeze coming off of the Pacific ruffling them. Her wings were ghosts upon her back, still heavy with the weight of the blood that had been shed at the dance.

One of Eclipse was the first to speak up, but something along the beach behind her caught her attention before his words had any effect on the group. She felt fear crawling up her spine with each heavy footstep taken on the sand, until they paused and the voice that followed calmed her racing heart.

Katja?

She was glad to know that their missing teammate was okay, but an uneasy feeling still spread over her. Rory had told her about his suspicions… and Haven had reason to believe he was right. She’d remembered how Hyperion had hit a soft spot within Katja all those years ago. Hyperion had hit a soft spot within herself, even, but she’d been wise to ignore the call of a world in which hyperhuman’s played dirty to get what they wanted.

She just didn’t know how she would feel if Katja had known about what awaited them in the trials. She wanted to believe that Katja didn’t have a clue. That it had been as much a betrayal to the blonde as it was for the rest of them. So many questions, and yet the weight of her grief had kept her from seeking Katja out herself in the past week.

Her head lifted from Rory’s arm as the footsteps drew nearer. She turned it to look up at him, a hint of apprehension shining in her hazel eyes as she whispered to him.

“Katja’s coming this way.”
In Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP → 6 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Location: Senior Dance, ARC Center - PRCU
Dance Monkey: #4.087 Dive For You
Interaction(s): Jim O’Neil, Chernobog @Lord Wraith
Previously: A Cuckoo in the Nest

Haven trembled where she knelt on the blood soaked floor of the ARC center, staring at the pool of blood and entrails before her. Her baby hairs, once delicately curled, were now sticky and flattened against her brows and cheekbones. The tawny feathers adorning her back and wings weighed heavier than they had ever felt, soaked in scarlet blood.

Her heart felt even heavier. Heavy with the blood of Gil, heavy with the snapped bones of her lover, the bruised necks of Cassander and her sister, the soul torn asunder across the room now waging war with her many selves, Lucille Calder’s heart which continued to beat– She knew it was still beating, she saw it pumping the blood into her former teammate’s body. Even the shredded form of the woman who had plagued her nightmares since the trial added to the load.

Jim O’Neil knelt next to her now promising a path of escape. His vibrant power shielded her from the monster’s blood soaked talons, from a future of suffering, from being re-made into Daedalus’s creation. The Chancellor promised that Rory was safe now. That if she could only will her body to follow him, she would allow Luce and Alyssa Townsend to hold the beast back until she was out of his grasp.

Was it worth the risk to their lives, too?

Was her life worth more pain and suffering?

The anger that fueled her ceaseless will to defy the cruel and twisted fate that was placed upon Haven burnt bright for one moment…

…until it too was weighed down and snuffed out by the despair in her heart.

She turned her head to look at O’Neil, imagining the ways the monster would tear him apart in front of her as she looked between his steady eyes.

“Get the others out.” She began, her voice strong but shaking with the weight of her decision. “Rory’s going to die if he doesn’t get somewhere safe.”

She was already slipping her feet out of her heels, her hands pressing into the blood of a friend as she pushed herself to her feet and looked through the purple shield at the fight happening for her sake. Her voice was softer now as she spoke again. “Tell him I’m sorry. I have to stop this before someone else gets hurt.”

Before her trembling legs could fail her, Haven slipped out of Jim’s reach and past his shield into the fray. She held her wings and chin high despite the utter defeat she felt in her soul.

“Take me and end this.” The tear running a line through the blood on her cheek betrayed her fear. “Please, no more suffering.”

Because she wasn’t sure if her heart could take anymore. She wasn’t sure if she could continue living, knowing that she could have prevented this if she’d just given in when the monster first extended its hand towards her. If she hadn’t let her closest friends act for her.

Somewhere within her fractured resolve, a smoking ember still hoped that this would provide an opening for someone to end the monster while it was distracted.
In Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP → 6 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Location: Senior Dance, ARC Center - PRCU
Dance Monkey: #4.080 A Cuckoo in the Nest
Interaction(s): Rory, @webboysurf, That Thing is Not My Son, @Lord Wraith
Previously: The Catbird Seat

"No, no... I was just getting some fresh air... had a talk with my sister, and she really let me have it."


Sister.

Her smile faltered, corners of her lips twitching as she forced it back onto her face before he could see it had happened.

"Sorry, did I miss something?"

She couldn't answer him as her mind whirled.

Harper’s my sister-
Her dad had an affair with my mom. He didn’t want me.
I was a mistake.

He knew I was in the system. Knew I was in the home, didn’t want me, left me there, I was so alone.

Harper’s my sister-
Her parents died. My father is dead, and
I don’t even know where my mom is-

Did she ever want me back?
Would she want me now? She loved me, right?

Harper's my sister.
Does she want me?


All of it threatened to pour out of her throat like vomit.

Her lips parted, taking a breath before she would attempt to gloss over the last twenty minutes, but the sound of something heavy hitting the roof of the ARC Centre drew her attention up.

”Rory-”

She was interrupted by the roar that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand tall. An instinct within her triggered, telling her that whatever made that kind of sound was a predator.

Screeching metal filled her ears a moment later, it’s whine causing instant discomfort to her sensitive drums. She cringed and pressed her hands to her ears as her wings twitched behind her. Desperate to reach for him, to run, to hide, but helpless until the last tear in the metal was made and silence fell over the dance.

Her heart beat in her chest like the thumping of a ruffed grouse’s wings. Building in pace as the roof fell into the centre and she caught a brief glimpse of the monster that crouched above until Rory blocked her view. Her body tucked into his embrace, grateful that he sacrificed his own protection for hers, every muscle of their bodies tense as they expected to be crushed beneath the debris. She buried her face into his suit jacket until the sound of falling metal stopped.

When the chaos ended, her head turned to peek out of Rory’s embrace, desperate to see what threat had come to their little island. The monster was huge. She’d never seen anything like it. Her eyes tracked it’s movements as it dropped itself down, down, until its large wings- they were so strong, they made her feathery limbs appear weak- caught the weight of its body and allowed it to land on the dance floor with little damage considering how far it had fallen inside. She couldn’t stop staring at it as it towered above them, growling at them in warning, its red eyes searching the crowd.

Until those eyes locked with hers and she felt her heart stop. Her hands dug into Rory’s dress shirt, eyes wide like a doe caught in headlights, and her breath hitching in her throat. Her wings tucked in tighter to her back as fear crawled up her spine. She wanted to shrink away from those eyes and hope they never looked her away again. Why was it looking at her like that? What did it want?

Her pulse returned, fast and intense, when it dragged its gaze away and she found herself taking a shaky breath as she tried to fight against the panic. She followed its gaze, and when it stopped once more she felt her stomach turn as the creature looked upon the pale skin adorned in ink and scars and raven hair that belonged to none other than Amma Cahors.

There was only one reason the two were connected. Only one person that could have made a monster like this, with its imposing figure and icy breath.

“Hello, mothers.”

No.

”The father is expecting you both.”

She felt like her heart was going to burst from her chest.

Her fear only grew as she watched Cassander Charon fail to land a blow to it. Her mind reeling as Torres stepped in to save him, body flinching with the name the Foundation rep uttered.

Daedalus.

They are dead. They aredead. Theyaredeadtheyaredeadthey’redead.

Her body began to tremble as she stared in blank terror at the gashes left along Torres’s abdomen.

He was back for her. She could see the twisted smile on his face now. Daedalus had sent his newest creation to steal them back. And it was addressing her again, the monster's threat curdling her blood as its eyes rested on the man she clung to. The man that was looking at her now, at her aching wings, her only option of escape hindered by the damage done to them.

As if she could fly faster than the monster could...

She could see the cogs turning behind those sky blue eyes, but all she could do was stare back at him with nothing but panic behind her own. Staring at him as he searched the crowd for someone, as he pulled his phone from his pocket and dropped it on the ground by her feet. He slipped from her touch easily, and before she knew it he was walking away from her. Her feet wouldn’t move no matter how desperately she wanted to follow him.

There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. All of the exits were blocked, frozen in a wall of ice. Students suspended within it, and she wasn’t even sure if they were alive. Could they breathe? Was she breathing?

She wasn’t. She couldn’t take a breath. The weight on her chest was crushing her lungs. She choked as the monster froze Rory’s legs in place, flinching as the monster threatened her wings. Finally she found the will to take a step forwards, to get to Rory, only to be pushed backwards by the wind those powerful wings created.

Her own wings spread open to beat against the wind, managing to stay on her feet while many others were knocked onto the ground. She needed to get to Rory before –

“Like this.”

Her heart leapt into her throat, panic bubbling its way out into a horrified scream as the monster lunged for him.
“NO!”

The crack shattered her heart, left her knees weak so that when she lurched forwards all she managed was to collapse onto them. Her wings flared behind her as she caught herself, her plumage standing tall for the second time that night but she didn’t even feel it. The arm that didn’t catch her fall reached for her chest, clawing at the place where her broken heart felt suffering and despair consuming it whole. Tears blurred her vision, building on her gold and green irises until they spilled over onto her cheeks and down to her chin. Her wails joined his pained screaming as she saw Rory then. The bloodied white bone jutted out of his thighs like a fallen tree. Her wings went limp behind her as she began to sob as he succumbed to shock and laid limp on the glitching floor.

“Ror-y?” Her voice cracked as she called for him. “Rory!”

The monster’s grey tail smashed the phone in front of her, but she hardly registered it. Her entire being was focused on the broken body of her best friend. Her ears listened for his shallow breath, eyes tracking the movements of his chest to make sure she was hearing it right. A shuddered breath escaped her when she confirmed that he was still alive. Her relief was felt only momentarily, lasting one precious second before she heard the gargoyle call her by her favorite name.

The name Rory had given her out of love.

Her face twisted into an anguished grimace before she looked up at the monster once more. Puffy and red-rimmed eyes beheld the terror she felt looking into his eyes, but within the gold and green there blazed a hatred for it. A hatred for the man that made it and sent it here to cause this pain. Who had stolen her from beside her lover and took her blood. The blood that likely gave this creature its wings.

Though that hate was not enough to keep her from uttering her next, defeated words...

"No one is coming with you."

The words left her lips in a whoosh of air instead.

Her eyes flitted to the Gils now where they stood between the monster and Amma. Her best friend still broken and unconscious behind them. She wanted to feel brave with him, to gather the courage to also stand against the monster, to fight for their freedom, but… All she felt was fear for what the monster might do to him for speaking up.

There was still one other who had a chance against it. Another whose partner had also put himself in harm's way to keep her safe.

“Amma… Ammaranthe!”

She pleaded, hoping that the French woman’s true name would wake her from the strange state she was in.

“Please.”
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