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ourlachesism

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About ourlachesism

  • Rank
    Aficionado
  • Birthday April 18

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  • Gender
    Female
  • Location
    lost at sea
  • Interests
    writing, reading, movies, music, dungeons & dragons, video games, outer space, the ocean, and other distant things.
  • Occupation
    college student

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    ourlachesism#6496

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  1. sorry for the delay, everyone i'm writing with—had to drop off the grid for a while and have some self-introspection and me-time 👀 will get to writing some posts in the next 24-48 hours hopefully 😃

    1. Mickey Flash

      Mickey Flash

      There now, doing that.  😖👍🏻

  2. anyone got some dark and/or angsty love songs in the style of Hozier or The Neighborhood or something? i've been thinking about the Dynamic(TM) for a week now and maybe i should turn to music to flush it out my system somehow *thousand-yard stare* 👀

  3. ourlachesism

    The Wild Hunt (Semi-Closed)

    “Whoa, that’s a beauty,” the blonde man murmurs in awe as they gaze upon the glowing spike of energy jutting out from the wyvern in the sky, and Lycoris has to agree, albeit begrudgingly. “It does get the job done,” she murmurs. They wait for a moment until the creature slams into the dirt, the impact making the ground sway. She hops off the jeep, strides towards the fallen beast and the others crowded around it. She has half a mind to check on her employer, but Isaac and the Mistress both move to Miss Blonde’s side and she dismisses the thought, turning away to inspect the wyvern’s maw. Lycoris begins the same motions on the creature as with the Kirin: she takes a vial and acquires a sample of wyvern blood, then gives its teeth a considering glance before prying one off with a knife. She gazes into the wide expanse above and breathes deeply. One last monster to hunt, and then perhaps one more step to the truth. The weariness under her skin, bone-deep and aching, is universally ignored. (Obtained: Wyvern’s blood, one wyvern tooth)
  4. ourlachesism

    Reflections (PM to join)

    Ultimately, deep down inside, Lycoris is not one for words. She prefers action, bloodshed, dodging blades and bullets, adrenaline coursing through her veins. So, really, it is not entirely her fault if she feels herself drifting away a few times during the ensuing conversation between her current employer and Roger Fuller. The few times she has ever seen the Crow do business—the real sort of business she deals in, under the facade of nightclubs and opera houses and wineries—it has rarely gotten to a point where the contact can talk down to her, not in the way Little Raj is doing to Miss Blonde now. It has also rarely gotten to a point where the Crow has to utter anything vaguely threatening, even. But of course, there is something unearthly when it comes to Míra, a sense that nothing can touch those flawless features, much less harm them, and no one questions it, opting to respond instead with fear or awe or a delicious blend of both. When it comes down to it, this sort of mockery, of visible hostility from Roger Fuller will get himself shot dead immediately, if the Crow herself were standing where Miss Blonde stands now. She quietly take note of the sudden blip of a voice in her mind informing her about wiretaps. Outwardly indifferent to both tenuous allies and aggressive opposition, Lycoris straightens her spine, tilts her head the way Hyacinth would do when she wants to unsettle her quarry. Her hand does not move from her thigh, and her gaze passes over those assembled on the other side of the divide. She wonders how fast she can send a bullet through each and every one of those heads.
  5. ourlachesism

    We Can Do Both

    “I’ll take them out,” Belladonna says, nodding at her associates, then turns and gestures to the slaves assembled to follow her. Wordlessly, they go in the other direction, and she listens to the sudden burst of gunfire for a moment for continuing on. It is no hardship, finding their way through the twist and turns of the concrete maze. Belladonna simply follows the droplets of crimson, the pattern of corpses strewn haphazardly about, half-frozen in dying pain, or terror, or both. “Subtle,” she murmurs under her breath, carefully keeping her boots away from any sort of stepping on puddles or worse, and does not look over her shoulder to witness the group’s reactions to the carnage. They reach the last hallway to the outside world when Belladonna suddenly slams against an unseen force, jolting her backwards but she manages to catch her footing. What on earth— “There’s a barrier,” she says, a faint undercurrent of distaste in her tone. She runs her hands against the air, where there shouldn’t be resistance but against all odds, there is. Magic, Belladonna, do keep up, the Crow of her mind whispers, and she shakes her head, curls her fingers into a fist. There is only one option, now. “We—we can’t—we can’t go back there, we can’t,” one girl sobs, and something in her gut clenches tight, stretched and strained and aching. One, two, three, always three, Bella— “We have to.” I’m sorry does not pass her lips. She won’t allow it. “We’ll find another way.” I promise does not pass her lips. She won’t make such a tangible assurance. Belladonna pivots, and the others trail behind her, hesitant but willing. There is no other choice. The group doubles back, and as they approach the club, the whimpers behind her become more prominent. Belladonna walks at the helm of the group, taking out two knives from the straps on her thighs. She hasn’t done much hand-to-hand combat recently, but the adrenaline pumping into her veins fuels her boldness, makes her twirl one experimentally in one hand. The knife spins in the air and into her fingers smoothly. She has always been excellent at this. If she needs to make use of it once again to leave, then she will.
  6. ourlachesism

    Looking for Mercenaries, Killers, and Operators.

    I'm posting soon; just gotta finish some last-minute college work 😅
  7. ourlachesism

    The Devil You Know

    Competitors, Quinton says, and Míra resists the urge to smile sharply, resists the urge to shatter the wineglass between her painted fingers. One might say that she is more than familiar with such competitors as the man had mentioned. Quite the detriment to her line of work, those irritants, and she does not bother to hide the faint revulsion on her features at the mention of them. “It's in our best interest that we handle this ourselves. Whether that means acquiring them or eliminating them, I leave to you.” She nods at his words, a few faceless names, a few shady organizations coming to mind almost immediately. She thinks she’ll quite enjoy this: the act of conquest for the outstanding, the act of elimination for the substandard. The man mentions a joint account, and Míra is reasonably sure she will have no need of it. She is not, after all, someone so predisposed to share what is hers. However, she does take note of its existence, as learned as she is to be prepared for whatever scenario the world sees fit to throw in her direction. It will have to do. The secretary comes over, whispers in her employer’s ear, and in the words that follow, Míra knows their business here together has come to an end, for now. “We’ve come to an understanding.” She catches Quinton’s eye and gives him a casual nod. “I’ve nothing else to add,” she murmurs around the rim of her glass, slow and measured, “as long as we all know where we stand in this partnership of yours.” She gives the others a glance, then allows her lip to curl up just a fraction. “Other than that, I am pleased to be acquainted with you all. To a fruitful business relationship,” she raises her wineglass, toasts the air, and then says no more.
  8. ourlachesism

    To sleep

    It is suffice to say she is not used to such grandiose plans, much less the planned destruction of a major city. Belladonna leans back against her chair, studying the table, her gloved hands, the individuals seated round the tent. She has never seen most of them before, certainly does not trust any of them other than those who have called her into this new life, and so her focus wanders away, pivots to the inevitable questions she cannot stifle, not quite yet: are her sisters hale, whole, thriving? How is Lycoris holding up? Hyacinth? What would Míra say, gazing upon her now? Thinking about the family she has left behind still feels like a cut limb, a piece of herself unmoored and set adrift. Belladonna casts her mind away from past recollection, turns her attention outward to the here and now, the future events that are about to transpire in the city of Tia. She listens to the others for a moment, then takes a packet wordlessly, noting the contents with a critical eye, committing important details to memory, before returning the documents into their container with little fanfare. All the while, something deep down in her chest purrs, all dark promise and possibility, warring with the tiny speck of light that cannot be stamped down, even after everything, even after all the blood on her hands. This mission, she thinks, will allow her to finally snuff it out for good.
  9. ourlachesism

    What do you know? [closed]

    “What are we doing here?" She is about to respond to the query when something in her mind splinters, breaks into little tiny pieces, and there’s suddenly a voice that is hers but not from here, not from this time and place. —Where are you going, please, don’t leave me, don’t leave me, I— She clutches her head, squeezes her eyes tight against the haze, shattered images of a sunlit gaze, curled lips, steady hands—they mean everything, don’t they; they mean life and death itself—and she shakes her head, a strangled whimper scraping itself out of her throat. No, she can’t do this, not right now. “We,” and she’s shaking, she’s broken deep down; she knows it, feels it in every pore, “we should head over there.” A trembling finger points towards the east, where the smoke continues to rise, directly opposite to the brewing torrent in the clouds to the west. “Maybe there’s something, a building there, so we can get out of the rain." She gives the others an exhausted glance. “Then we figure out what is going on.”
  10. ourlachesism

    Darkness and Havoc [Apocalyptic Event in Ceyana]

    That will probably be my last post as well, unless something dire happens 👀 I echo Tyler's sentiments: thank you for the wonderful event @Pasion Pasiva @Dolor Aeternum! I love exploring what happens in a disaster, and this has been a lovely one 😄 I'll continue to keep an eye on it: those people in the jungles looking for gods are cool 😏 thanks again! ❤️
  11. ourlachesism

    [Event] Darkness and Havoc - Illyria Arrives

    Kestrel sees the first monster go down, riddled with holes, and allows the victorious yell to erupt from her chest. Fuck yeah! Now, that’s how things should be. She nods to herself and continues to bring all the people out in the sea back onto steady ground, where the still-hale-and-whole ships stand ready to take them away from all this stupid chaos. Her leg begins to bleed in earnest, but she shrugs it off — not now, not yet — and keeps herself going, keeping a close eye on the Golden Arrow. It’s a losing battle against those other monsters. The lump in her throat threatens to choke her, then and there. After a few moments, she spots a lone rowboat pushing out into open waters, and even with the short span of time they’ve fought together, Kestrel recognizes that figure on the boat. That bastard! What the hell is he doing? Then she sees the beastie coming out from the depths, its jaws flinging open to envelop the tiny boat, and oh shit, oh no. Kestrel stands gaping as a few moments later, the explosion sends a towering stream of water spiralling into the air. The monsters hadn’t stood a chance. Oh gods. The world is short out of good men these days, and so all she can think about is I could’ve saved him. She could have. “Fuck,” Kestrel swears emphatically, crouching down on the dirt, her head in her hands, the world wailing in chaos all around her. “Fuck.” But there is no time to mourn, not when there is still work to be done. She drags in a weary breath, rises to her full height — which is not much, but it’ll have to do — and barks at the congregation standing shell-shocked on the docks to move, damn it, get on the boats! They scramble to obey, and in a matter of moments, the refugee ships begin to set off into the distant seas, loaded to the brim with civilians, wounded and unscathed alike. Kestrel stands clutching the railings with tight fists, staring out into that sudden night eclipsing the sun, eclipsing the city. Her heart is set. There is no saving her home, not anymore. She turns her back on Ceyena, collapses down onto the deck of the ship amidst muffled shouts of concern, onto a slow-growing pool of crimson at her feet. Fuck, but it hurts.
  12. Contrary to popular belief, Samael is a fabulous tenor. He hadn’t meant to sing along, at first, because really, it’s embarrassing, why would he do that? However, the sheer childish joy radiating off the others is somehow infectious, and he finds himself holding hands with people he doesn’t know quite that well yet, finds himself humming a steady, strong undertone in contrast to the off-key voices rising above the sound of the wind. He even manages to keep his grimace inward, and that is quite frankly an achievement, in Samael’s eyes. He keeps his gaze on the Mistress, determined and focused on her movements, on the mission that has brought them here to the slopes of a mountain, in this land of Taen, as the others have mentioned it. He will do what he can to aide the party, as his Lady would want him to do so. This does not mean he is not enjoying himself, however. Just a teensy bit.
  13. ourlachesism

    An evening to remember

    She hasn’t even written two lines yet when a voice startles her out of her reverie. “You’re a musician as well? How absolutely wonderful!” Viridia turns, catches the eye of the man with the long blonde locks. Her gaze strays to the one-armed woman he is undoubtedly leaving in the air alone by talking to her, and she cannot help but wonder what had happened, for such a tragic thing to occur. If she shall ever lose the use of her hands, her fingers, never to use an instrument or a quill ever again—well. She does not know what will become of her. Because of this, Viridia gives the woman a soft, commiserating smile, nods politely at her before returning her attention to the one who had spoken. "May I ask your name, stranger? I do not mean to intrude, but may I ask what you are writing?" Viridia smiles in amusement at the questions he sends her way. My, he is the curious sort. “My mother taught me not to give away my name so easily to strangers,” she taps her temple to emphasize the point, “but, well, I’m not exactly the best of daughters.” She bows as much as she can while seated. “Greetings! I am Viridia. Pleased to make your acquaintance!” After giving his guitar a faint longing glance, Viridia turns to her journal, flips to a random page, and raises it up for the man to see: a short musical composition, the title Roads We Travel On written neatly at the top of the piece. “I’m writing music, see? This is a rather short travel hymn I’ve composed. Far from home, but onwards on—it goes something like that,” she explains, singing the first few words with a cheerful air. “You say you are a musician as well?”
  14. ourlachesism

    A rose grows in concrete [dali]

    [ music room ] “We,” her sister says, and Varda turns her head sharply to look at her. The word, harsh and violent and ice-cold, cuts through the marrow, bone deep. Merel’s fingers fly over the ivory keys, the music shifting to something more somber, more heart-wrenching. Varda can feel her sister stealing all the air in the wind to speak her piece, and her lungs gasp in her chest. “You believe it to be so. Detective Varda. Detective Jasper. Detective Everybody in the Whole Damn House. Well let Detective Merel have her say.” Her sister continues, spits fire, spits a whirlwind of barbs straight to the heart, how could I trust anybody in Ravenel, and there it is. There it is. Varda’s throat is dry. She wants to scream, she wants to weep, she wants to tell her sister you can trust me, you can, but of course, what good will it do, when even the one borne of your blood is wary of you? “Perhaps you underestimate the love we bear our father, but do not think for one second, sister, that we did not—do not—love him,” she rasps, violent and grinding, a hateful sound to her ears, but she cannot stop herself, cannot keep the hurt from spilling out. “That’s why do not—” Her voice cracks on the syllable, like scorched earth crumbling at the seams. “Do not let yourself believe in an impossible thing.” She lets the words bleed out, where they dislodge themselves from the walls of her ribs: “You are not the only one hurting here.” Lady Dali cuts in, then, when the silence becomes too weighted, too heavy to bear. Varda looks away, down to her pale, shaking fingers as the matriarch speaks. "However qualified a single party may be, to have one man take up such a burden as sussing out a hired assassin is to invite ignorance should he be himself dispatched, swayed from nobler intentions, or the perpetrator himself. Find another to take up the burden also, wherever you must go to find them.” She merely nods in weary agreement, unsure that her voice will not betray her if she speaks. If she must, then she shall. Varda collapses, slumps against her seat, the fight bleeding slow out of her. She gazes at the two seated on the bench, and does not acknowledge the scraping creature digging its claws down into the soil of her soul. “Who else has gained, or stands to gain, by this injustice?” She clenches her fist in her skirts, wills herself not to cry, says nothing more. Who indeed?
  15. ourlachesism

    Prenuptial celebration - Dali x Mythal

    Yep, will get a post up in the morning 😄 And alrighty, I feel it's a good end too 😊 We'll see how it goes after another round
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