SweetCyanide

king milo: throws a party all pirates within the vicinity: ill be attending with the unluckiest luckiest man in the madeum seas and the softest boi in the hildebrand lands. : ^ )

robicheaux, ramsey It was his worst nightmare. Fight or flight frantically pranced wild into his nerves. "Ram, change of plans, they're coming for her. No time for the bus, you've got to get out of there now." He adjusted his spectacles, landing specific targets on specific heads among other heads. "Yeah, I see them." "You need to get across the street. Meet me in the parking garage next to my building, fourth floor." He spoke in a mockingly deadpan voice. "Yes, sir." His tone was code for: "You've gotta shitting me, Emile." The moment when several men in uniform started swimming in the opposite direction of the crowd, Ramsey didn't even have time to think. He looked at Hart, smiled, and swung his arm around her shoulder and held her close to his side. It was a smooth gesture, as if they had known each other like chummy boyfriend and girlfriend. Ramsey, the boyfriend, and Hart, the unfortunate girlfriend. Both of them started walking, and so started the chase. "Roll with it," he casually said, "we're going to take a shortcut." They paced towards the street, something the CDF had suddenly noticed, and the officers changed their course. Ramsey was so focused on getting away, he hadn't noticed that a wet flyer had glued itself onto his shoe. His body language and facial tics seemed to imply nothing of a daring escape; but the same couldn't easily be said for Hart. Under his arm, she was in a cold sweat. Ramsey continued playing his part, occasionally engaging in lighthearted small talk in an incredibly dull tone. It would jarr Hart, but it was better than leaving her frightened. In the corner of his eye, the officers inched steadily closer. Red targets bobbed on their heads, displaying the distance he had from them. He pushed his glasses up, stopping dead in their tracks now that they've arrived at the street. As a crowd began to cross, they moved with them and blended in, but they never left the CDF's sights. Amidst the locals, someone like Doctor Robicheaux and Doctor Hart looked embarrassingly foreign. Ramsey pulled his arm off her and technically started to rush. It took fifteen seconds to get to the street and took five seconds to cross it. They entered the parking garage and Ramsey shot a look at Hart with a straight face. "Alright, now we run."

robicheaux, ramsey Ramsey never trusted free vaccines. Nor will he ever trust any from Last Chance. His reasoning behind it was that: it's Last Chance. It was clear that he didn't like Last Chance all that much. Maybe it was the air, the scent of wet garbage, the feeling of dread you get whenever you see a homeless human rotting by the sidewalk where everyone else walks right by. Gangs of street children resorting to sniffing glue to satiate their hunger, where the same kids get beat at the market for trying to steal a piece of meat. Ramsey wrinkled his nose and reveled in the atmosphere. Smells like a bunch of losers. He stood near a bench—making his trust issues clear on sitting—and looked at the direction where his comrade scoped out the view. From a far distance, one could tell he had a handsome figure. Classy trench coat, black turtleneck. It was a shame that his good looks were utterly wasted on him. He made eye contact with Gareau as he placed his spectacles on, his attention now circling back to a woman coming his way. "Doctor Robicheaux," he said, with a voice of a smoker and the scent of one, "You're Miss . . .?" @danzilla3

Pffffff. “A hand chainsaw?” Tommy mumbled under her breath with a grin, inspecting the walls ridden with graffiti, couple signatures, and unoriginal penis jokes. The light from Ashton's orb still wasn't enough to make out what any of the barely legible writing said. Then Tommy moved on to the next wall, where all the color from her body had drained into the sewer water below. It was like all the other walls, except what layered on top was a single massive claw mark that ripped through so deep, there was a pitch black shadow on the other side. Tommy placed her hand inside one of the four jagged strips strewn across the wall, and shuddered on the inside when there was still room for more hands. Looking back at her senior, she pretended to be unfazed, assuming that Justice most likely preferred a tough kid. "That actually sounds pretty cool," she said, walking over to Ashton, who had stared intently at a piece of trash. A ribbon. “Looks like we are in the right . . .” Ashton stopped talking. He made a face before saying: “You hear that?” Elvish ears perked up. ". . . Hear what?" Tommy whispered. They concentrated on the sounds. It was a short while before Ashton spoke again. “I think someone is down here.” She held her keychain dangling from her belt. "You hear it too? I thought it was just me." He brought his sword down. Tommy radiated with curiosity at the glint of his blade. "What do you want us to do?" "Hmm?" She drew a blank. Then, "Oh! Uh," Tommy pointed at herself, "me?" Ashton looked at her with a straight face. She stared at him with uncertainty in her eyes. When nothing else was said, Tommy swallowed a big lump in her throat and began to scratch at her head, forgetting that that hand was the same hand destined to become a chainsaw. In comparison to Ashton, he was calm, staring silently at Tommy in wait for her decision despite already making his own strategy. She struggled coming up with a plan, but ultimately decided that they should go investigate the strange sound. If they really do find someone, saving that person would be their first priority. "Let's check it out. The noises, I mean." They walked towards the two paths, two large circles in the middle of a small sewer hallway. ___________________________________________________________

Pluto watched how for a moment, Iyalon's eyes turned as glassy as his. Those cold and calculating eyes, brimming with water. For a moment, Pluto wished to deceive him more, just to see him cry. If he were more careless, that would have been the case. He shut up and listened, like the good friend he was. He nodded in sympathy, like the great actor he was. Then—it was his turn to speak. In a stiff movement, Pluto curled his lips and spoke with the delicacy of a flower. "Your voice is sad, Iyalon," he murmured, his own eyes following a colorful fish in the water. "But I sense that you've come to me to not only lament about the duties pressed unto you, O Ser Knight." Pluto looked at his friend. Against the light, Iyalon could see everything beautifully inhuman carved into his face. Glassy eyes. Black and grey pupils. A symmetrical face. "I know how difficult Jasper can be. And how this task of yours is difficult, too, so why don't I help?" Pluto said, in an almost uplifting tone. "But—" Pluto grinned, "let me guess—you've asked Shirin before me? Ha. I see you through you, Iyalon Izora. I see through many." He placed his hand on his shoulder. "I offer you my hand. And I offer you my sword. How about it, then?"

After a long conversation touching on the matters of good and evil, both of them stood before a chained gate. Beyond it was a black circle of pitch-black darkness untouched by Blairville's warm sunlight. The moist concrete had grown moss all over. From inside, she could hear the faint sound of water drops. She could feel a dying wind failing to brush her hair away. With these sensations hitting her this early in the morning, Tommy suddenly felt hesitant. She slowly turned her head to look at Ashton. Her face said it all. No. We're not... are we...? Ashton didn't seem to care. His face said it all. She slowly turned her head again, forcibly suppressing some questions. Something like this was too weird to think about at this time of day. Considering the fact that Tommy had barely gotten any sleep at all, trying to think about it was too tiring of a task. And - if Tommy had been more creative, maybe a good joke would be well on it's way out of her mouth. But instead, she incited the obvious. "That's a big tunnel." Her almost quiet words echoed. Not even a second later, Ashton broke into the tunnel. He strided in with a sword on his shoulder, slowly disappearing, slowly eaten by the dark. Tommy didn't actually know if she said that loud enough for him to hear, so she went after him not knowing if he did, in fact, hear that. "This is a pretty big tunnel," she repeated, her slightly louder words now echoing harder into the tunnel. In here, the air felt thicker. Hot steam and cold wind made for awful goosebumps. The scent was pungent, like sniffing a wet dog. But in fairness, this was a utility tunnel. And though it was dark, light was scarce. It often glowed in the distance like a warm flickering lightbulb over a swarm of a dozen mosquitoes. Everything far away sounded so painfully near that, Tommy felt her ears get tickled; like a ghost was whispering to her under the guise of a creaking metal beam. Eventually, Ashton stopped on a loose metal lid. When he used his sword to pry it open, it made her wince, but when the smell hit them, she winced even harder. That, was the smell of a sewer. Their voices echoed. “I think the beast we are about to kill, isn’t evil. But it deserves to die all the same.” Tommy was scared of heights. ".... Are we going down there?" Ashton responded with the heightened sounds of his hand rustling into his pocket. “Take this, it’s a resonance com crystal. If we get separated you can use it to keep in touch.” "Oh! Cool. How do I use it?" Ashton leapt down. "Is there a button, or should I just speak into it? This is so cool. I don't know what this is." . . . "Mr. Ashton." Tommy looked down. "Mr. Ashton?" ___________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________ Tommy landed on her feet. It sprayed sewage water onto Ashton and onto herself. Also, her hand unfortunately plunged straight into shit water. "Man," she wiped her palm on her pants. "Not cool." She took off her school bag and zipped it open, rummaging inside with her other hand and whipped out an old-looking flashlight. After smacking it twice, it shined a bright cone of light. Tommy, not entirely unfazed by the smell of the sewer despite being a down-to-earth farmer, looked at Ashton. "My hand is definitely infected now. I can feel ninety-nine percent of bacteria flowing into my bloodstream."

since you haven't finished the anime nor the movie yet, i'm just gonna say ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ strap in for the biggest goddamn ride of your lifespan

Raine leapt from Elitanin’s back and landed on her feet. The staff in her hand disappeared with the faintest sound of broken glass as she observed the broken shards of, well, glass. Presumably, and more specifically, Ophiuchus’s remains now treated as a blasphemous pile of treasure for greedy hands to take. Elitanin turned his iron-skulled head to Raine, now waiting if she would actually decide to pick up the Zodiac Materia. She was surprised, having received empathy from her stone-faced, short-tempered familiar. She placed her hand on his snout and huffed. “I feel horrible.” “It was for the greater good.” “I still feel horrible.” “It was for the greater good,” he repeated, “so there’s no use feeling sorry now.” "Easy for you to say. I helped kill my god." Raine frowned. Elitanin frowned back. Reluctantly, she knelt on one knee and eyed one particular shard—one bigger than the rest. Her hand hovered over it. Elitanin moved closer to her, so that his eye met with hers. “What if they can be saved,” She muttered. Elitanin was silent. Raine took it as doubt, and frowned harder. Vexed, she took the shard and gripped it. Then her eyes were pierced with light. A cacophonic screech palpitated in her ears. The sound of broken chains echoed throughout the cave. Without another sound, Raine fainted.

Once again, they headed out—Raine, Samael, and Ephah, all seated on Elitanin's sinuous back. Led by Raine, the dragon wove through the air, avoiding the errant meteor that punched through the clouds. Before, Ophiuchus had hidden in the jungle. Now, it hovered high in the atmosphere, high above even Renovatio’s floating landmass. It was near-invisible, its flesh and wings translucent. And yet—perhaps a result of its ego—it refracted all light that passed through it, creating a halo of sunlight around its form. Behind Raine, Arende chuckled. "He's beautiful. Terrible personality, though." Raine snorted. She pressed her hand against the dragon’s mane. “Did you hear that?” Elitanin snarled. “A compliment and a complaint, yes, I heard that.” "Well," Arende said, yawning. "He's already watching us. Let's begin."

☽ It seems that gods really do dream. Her descent was slow—silent—as she entered the mindscape of the slumbering Ophiuchus. Raine first made contact with a dim world. Unable to actually see, but instead, can feel. The tip of her feet touched water and it rippled. From the ripples, came light from beneath. It cascaded into her—the light—as she took on yet another appearance. In this dream, she was as small as an insect. A luminous and tiny robed creature perhaps the size of a coin. A large crescent moon hovered around her forehead. Raine looked and turned. She glanced down at her feet where she shined on the water, and found herself staring into a black expanse of… The witch placed her hand on her heart and stared into the dark. She followed her heart, quite literally, a surge of strangely connected empathy that guided her closer to a hurt beast hiding in its cave. Endlessly, she wandered a silent dream. Then: a ripple bounced off a wall. No—not a wall. A throne? Someone was seated at the throne—the one that is hurt. A wave of moonlight showered the void; revealing an endlessly star-lit sky and a throne that scraped the horizon. Beneath her luminescent feet was tranquil water. Too tranquil for a damaged god. But maybe— Raine looked up at a mountainous stone throne. Perhaps he wasn’t dreaming at all. Perhaps he was trapped in a peaceful slumber, where he only thought nothing but star-filled darkness. She climbed his throne like an ant crawling onto a human. Eventually, she reached his arm rest, where she pushed herself up and stood before a many-eyed, many-faced omniscient titan. Her eyes suddenly felt glassy. Her blue glowing hands placed themselves on Ophiuchus's knuckles and she spoke. “I found you,” She whispered. “I found him,” She said to everyone.

“Mm. I know.” There was an amicable tone to it. “And—I’ve felt it. Their pain," she struck her heart, "I feel it." Raine took the being's hand, making Arende turn to look at her as she encased her hand between her faded palms. “I—" she hesitated, "I don't really agree with Primera, to execute the gods of our land. Usually I'm—an optimist, I think, but..." The witch took one hand to push the brim of Arende's hat to meet with her eyes. "They might really be hopeless." Raine huffed. The two stood there, in Arende's dream of space and stars and moons which she had never seen before. She interlaced her fingers with Arende's and brought them up higher, suddenly determined, having finally made a choice. "Will you have me, then? As part of your group?" “That’s why I asked,” Arende grinned. Raine, flustered, began to stutter. “Um. Yes. I—I suppose that’s true, but, you know...” Arende reached out to affectionately ruffle her white-voidish hair—it was a notable contrast between them—light and darkness. A location, tied with a bundle of knowledge, dropped into the dream-witch’s mind. “You’ll find us here, and that’s all the information you’ll need about Ophiuchus.” The being patted her hand. “I’ll see you.” Raine smiled. “Don't make me regret this, now.”

The being that called herself Arende mirrored her smile with one that is strikingly human. “You are...” half of Arende’s eyes closed, the eyelids a translucent gold, “... near me. Are you looking for employment, Raine? My waking self sleeps in Avylon, and I am off to kill a god when we rejoin.” "You're close, then, if you are in Avylon," Raine muttered, "but I'm surprised you would ask someone who you've just met, to help in killing... erm, one of my gods." Her warm smile had faded. Her white eyes now saddened, and her joyful voice reduced to melancholy. "It's a pity," She said, as she took Arende's hands and spun her in an otherwise slow dance in the black space between them and the moons before them. "They're hurt, and we can do nothing but take them out of their misery." Raine shook her head. “Ah, I'm a bit.. conflicted, right now—I'm sorry.” Arende sighed. The witch stopped in their weightless dance and glanced up, at Arende. “Unfortunately," she said, "that is what I would ask you to do, should you agree to join me.” The being was silent for a moment. Something like mist drew across its visage; after a moment, a more human figure stood before Raine—its face hidden in shadow from a wide-brimmed hat, its sheer cape rolling in a nonexistent wind. “I am doing a favor for a friend, one who has decided the age of gods is over,” Arende said. "The Kommandant?" “Your gods have grown mad, refusing to go into eternal night, to a world where they could rest. They rage. They are tearing your land apart.” The woman turned. Behind her, a scene bloomed into existence—the pockmarked mountaintops of Avylon, valleys and villages torn asunder by the unrelenting hail of meteors.

The reflection smiled. Raine found herself falling forward, hurtling into another realm. The mirror of her dream-world was darker, somehow; its iridescence remains, yet as the opalescent hues on an oil slick, the scattered-color lens flares cast by a hundred alien moons. “Ah, perfect. An illusionist, aren’t you?” said the stranger’s voice. A monstrous, many-eyed being stood before her, a hand tapping its chin. A nebula of shadows flickered behind it: hands upon hands upon hands, running through its hair, clasping each other, reaching out, drawing back, clenching and unclenching, twisting on their wrists. Raine harmlessly laughed. “I wouldn’t say illusionist.” “What would you say then?” asked the being. It tilted its head; its eyes blinked in synchronicity. “You can call me Arende,” it added. Arende reached a hand forward for her to shake. “And you, madam?” Another laugh, more harmless than the last. “Arende, is it,” she grinned, “I go by the name Raine.” “A fitting name, indeed, indeed,” Arende whispered, it's—her—voice a chorus. “For when your namesake falls from the heavens, come petrichor. Comes memories, comes melancholy, comes dreams. Are you a dreamwalker, then?” Raine held Arende’s hands, and watched them absorb her light. “Hmmm. Try to guess.” “Oneirokinetic? Somnipath?” Raine laughed again. A big smile stretched her cheeks, and she spun Arende around with her. She whispered then, “A dream witch.”

art by: shen he - artstation ♦ RAINE: ENTER. Another dream meant another palace to explore. She often thought of it like that, a grand expanse created purely by one’s visage, a world fueled by someone’s own memories. To her, there was an indescribable emotion behind traversing the landscape of someone else’s head. In a way, she thought it mystical, perhaps even delightful. Delightful, most probably, because Raine is quite fond of fantasy. To explore a place that doesn’t even exist—how truly wonderful that is. This dream reminded her of the sheen of a pearl. Carved with white rocks and powdered in white sand, tranquil with blue tidepools and faded with pink colors. She stood there then, on the water, a beautiful apparition glancing upwards at the pastel blue sky. Her shoulders were draped with a long flowing robe as white as the sands; a blinding light standing upon a massive tidepool. Then, something peculiar: a glass sheet, a mirror, rises from the water and takes its place before her. Upon a closer look, it would seem that in this dream, she appears translucent. Her hair, white and glowing, is faded from their ends as if a stream constantly run through them. Her eyes were pupiless, but somehow, she was able to see. A mystical crescent is placed on her forehead, a recognition of some sorts, a reminder of her role as conductor. Raine smiled at her reflection. It’s eyes, now a featureless black. It stared upon her in curiosity, and she reached to touch it. “Hello,” she said, her voice a disembodied lullaby, “can you see me?” “Hello,” the reflection echoed, in a voice that was most assuredly not her own. It reached out as well; where their hands meet is not glass, but skin. Its fingers twined around hers, wrapping around her wrist. “Mind if I borrow you for a bit?” That question didn't seem to bother her at all. Raine laughed. "Sure."