Jump to content


  • Content Count

  • Joined

  • Last visited

  • Days Won


Everything posted by vielle

  1. vielle

    the symphony within

    Her dreamscape has never been so blessed before, not since the arrival of Himei to the halls of Ravenel Manor. There is a symphony within the mists, the divide between the wakened world and the dark well of slumber. There are words enveloped between the notes, faint and shapeless, but there all the same. Before, she had not been able to decipher the true meaning behind whatever she is hearing, and tonight, there are no clues that point to the opposite happening, despite what had happened today. She presses through the shifting landscape, following the tune whispering through her dreams, when suddenly, there are the words again, and there is a voice, and there is sudden meaning. Greetings, child. I am Himei. Shirin backpedals— —and wakes up in the faintly illuminated space, the faint glow of the candle on her bed stand casting flickering shadows against the glass windows of her bedroom. She places a hand to her chest, remembers the voice, the tenderness of it, like a mother’s touch. Her heart had beat just like this, a rolling drumbeat wave, when she had taken up the Oathblade. Her skin had shone bright for a moment, and the most beautiful melody had rang through the halls like a benediction. It had brought tears to her eyes, her brother’s, even Aspen’s own as the noblewoman clamped a hand over her mouth and sobbed. It had been—indescribable. Shirin throws a shawl over her shoulders, takes quiet steps out into the darkened halls: empty and cool. It is not yet time for the nobles to rise, and so the servants continue to slumber in peace, or are otherwise making rounds around the manor with hushed silence. Her feet are not quite moving on her own accord; it is as if there is a thread between herself and the Oathblade, and try as she might, the tugging motion from the other end of the cord is impossible to resist. The Spring Hall is void of any wandering soul, and so she moves into the room, comes to stand by the wooden box, takes the lid off with careful fingers. She gives the Oathblade a critical glance, raises her fingers to the cool steel once more, just as she had before, when Crowley had offered the sword for her to take— Do not be sad. Shirin jolts at the words, formed by a voice that is disembodied but gentle, kind, decisively feminine. There are footsteps in the hallway. She pivots in sudden movement, throws the cloth back over the box, pulls her shawl tighter around herself. There is no time to make this little early sojourn look anything other than what it actually is, and so Shirin waits for the owner of those boots to enter the room, her shoulders bowed as if awaiting judgement. @Wade
  2. vielle

    Chatbox or Status Update [poll]

    I made a mistake and voted 'chatbox' when I really wanted 'status updates' so this is my resubmission form 😅 I'd say on my part, with the differing timezones and all, posting something for people to see in the chatbox might not always get to work out 😔 not everyone who writes with me follows me, for example, and if I post an AFV, they'd have a lesser chance of seeing it, or otherwise I'd have to manually go through my list to personally let them know - 'tis all for ease of use, methinks 👀 Posting comments in the status updates seems pretty engaging to me just as much as the chatbox is, too 😆
  3. vielle

    Spear of Diamonds Relic OOC

    I'll be taking the spear as we've discussed, thanks ❤ LBS was fun, if not slighty nerve-wracking and I was totally in control of the whole scenario, all part of the plan 👀 LOL but yes! I'll just be posting along until it reaches 2 pages for canonization 😃
  4. vielle

    slithered here from eden

    It feels like a concession of sorts, standing at the steps of Quinton Swan’s newly-built villa, hovering in uncertainty and unease in equal measure. Varda glances up at the structure from under the half-shade of her parasol and takes a necessary gulp of air. It has been several weeks since their last meeting, that fateful afternoon when he had first visited Ravenel Manor, walking out the doors with a part of her she had not known she had given away until after his departure, and Varda is—she is— She’s been breathing ashes ever since she had first seen him. It is altogether strange, this feeling that has taken root in the fertile soil of her heart, blooming ivy vines around her iron trellis ribcage. She does not quite fear it, but neither does she desire to nurture it, not when there is still much at stake, the silver ring on her finger still tying her to her betrothed, an ocean and an island away. Underneath the forest green frocks she has donned for this occasion, she is still healing, still recovering from the attempt on her life; despite her recent visit to House Senaria and the medicines and care they’ve prescribed, Varda senses a deeper hurt, bone-deep and ravenous. She thinks there must have been something in that poison-tinged arrow that even the doctors cannot ascertain, cannot remove even as it digs itself further into her marrow. But nevertheless: she is here to make good on her vow to a business partner; whether or not she is ailing does not matter. “I do not like this,” the stoic presence beside her announces, and Varda resists the urge to sigh. Iyalon, of course, has been making his disapproval of the situation very clear ever since he had first caught wind of the business deal she and Quinton had established. “Must you go forward with this—this peculiar condition he’s set on you?” That insinuation that she is unable to make such a decision for herself cuts deeper than she expects it to. “It is not for you to decide,” Varda answers, and with that quiet, out of the ordinary statement, the knight swivels his head and stares at her in startled disbelief. The Lady is unmoved, however, and so he merely hangs his head. “As you wish,” comes the stiff, monotonous reply, and no, no, that would not do. Not now. “I will be fine.” Varda offers him a reassuring smile, brimming with optimism, and what else can he do but back down? With one final nod, Iyalon relinquishes his hold on his Lady’s arm and stands his ground as she moves up the stairs alone, soft fabric trailing behind her in her walk towards the doors. There are servants who come to greet her, and the doors shut behind her with a decisive click. @King
  5. vielle

    [Relic; semi-closed] hazy badlands

    Some witch of the bog she is, that she gets lost in the forests almost immediately. Tipping her head towards the shadowed treeline overhead, Shardana closes her eyes and breathes for a moment in the stillness, calling forth whatever spirits she feels entwined in the lifeweb of the greenery, that steady beating heart that continues to thrum through every living creature, every leaf, every stone, every rippling wave of water in the smallest puddle. She must not get lost. There are strange things in these badlands, she's heard tell, and it would not do for her to run off the beaten path when she must get to her family in time for the evergreen ritual, not that she particularly cares much for it. There is a rustle somewhere in the far left. Shardana sighs, turns her feet in that direction. Perhaps it may lead her back to where the road is.
  6. Brief: A mysterious outlander hires you to pacify the chosen mirror before the spell wears off. Item: Pisces Necklace A silver necklace with a medallion in the shape of two circling fish. This enchanted necklace allows the wearer to breathe underwater. The user becomes one with the water. Class: B Pages: 2+ brevity challenge rules
  7. Fanras glances down at the map in his hands, then towards the distant outline of Rysfort on the horizon, naught but a speck yet to the eye, but altogether foreboding. Foreboding, of course, in the sense that he knows what lies within the town, a slumbering power only he can ascertain. He shakes his head, tucking away the map into his pack. No, not only him, not really. There are others like him that can see through the weavings of magic throughout the world, and it is here that he has found something quite extraordinary. His feet, bare against the grass and dirt, eventually move to take him closer to the town, closer to the power that ripples forth like a beacon. It is subtle, but it is there. He need only figure out where, exactly, is that magical siren coming from.
  8. Brief: A troll has stolen an item from a merchants cart. The nature of the item is unknown, but what is known is the troll is having a hay-day attacking people traveling through the mountains. Item: Club of Clubs A 1-handed club that seems to have three heads, each covered in small spines. To the wielder the club is light and can deal immense damage to their enemies, knocking them out for a whole day. Class: B Pages: 2+ brevity challenge rules  
  9. vielle

    [Relic; semi-closed] fire|fly

    Nyrea was in a bad spot, and it was not her fault, for once. She stared at the door of the tavern, a well-worn sign with faded paint cheerfully announcing its name to be the Rambunctious Goose—which was, truly, an amazing name; well done, whoever wrote that down—and struggled not to stomp her foot in the dust like a child. Really, for Steorra's sake, she didn't have to get kicked out of the entryway this early in the morning; she was only trying to get more news or information about the so-called barbarian rampaging somewhere in the eastern quarter. Seeing the posters about it gave her the idea to seek him out and put a stop to it, if only for the reward promised for putting him down. She did not wish to be booted out the door for her apparent indecency, whatever that meant. Nyrea did not need this kind of nonsense! Well, what else can she do but turn away? As she pivoted on her heel, however, she cursed. Loudly. Colorfully. With variety. Who cares how unladylike that seemed?
  10. Brief: A raging barbarian is causing havoc; he will scratch, stab, bite, and jump people that come within a certain distance of him and doesn't stop screaming about some bastard who he killed that took his mind and cursed him. Item: Bow of Hearts A red and black longbow and all arrows that it fires have their tips changed to a pointed heart-shape. The arrow tips are combustible, they will start a small fire wherever they land - person or thing. Class: B Pages: 2+ brevity challenge rules
  11. vielle

    ouverture de corbeau

    "It seems I arrived a tad too late. I believe one of you would be the new owner of the rumored opera?" Míra glances up, scans the appearance of this new arrival with calculated ease. The man is dressed simply, and she would not have given him a second glance if not for the self-satisfied expression that seems permanently plastered over his youthful face. He is handsome, even, when put in the right light. Not that Míra particularly cares. “I am the new owner, yes,” she introduces herself, extends a hand to gesture towards an empty seat that the man is more than welcome to sit himself in. “Míra Andronov, is the name. Please, do take a seat. They shall serve wine for us in a moment.” True to form, a server appears with a bottle of chardonnay for them to indulge in, pouring into glasses suffice enough for Míra and the rest of her guests. She takes her time in tasting the wine, her fingers tapping against the smooth surface of her wineglass. “Pray tell, who are you and how would you like to provide for the good of the Opera Divina?” The name tastes bitter on her tongue; she is most definitely replacing that one soon enough. @Thotification
  12. vielle

    ouverture de corbeau

    one. It is perhaps a testament to her upbringing that Míra does not cry, when the news comes. She spends the first few seconds after on the floor, however: staring into nothingness, blinking and blinking and not-crying, and it’s all still very much a process of mourning because there has indeed been a loss—a loss so tangible, so weighty that she feels it sticking to the walls of her ribcage when she breathes in too deep. The wine spilled onto the tiles—red on marble white—seeps into her silk frocks, staining and chilling her skin underneath. She does not move away from the encroaching puddle, focused on the inside instead, on the parts that are flayed-out and depthless and drenched, poised to snap and break. Grief hurts, presses in on everything like a newly-minted bruise, and the idea makes itself known in the distant part of her mind: everything is about to change. After: she accepts the crown of thorns, takes up the mantle of dark wings and a name that does not belong to her in the first place. She transforms the worn-down business of her family and acquires new ones, and she does not, for one second, stop and look back. Now: she begins the task of spooling her thoughts away from the death of her parents, presses her fingers into the crimson pool at her knees, and allows herself to be vulnerable, open and bleeding on the floor, just for a little while.
  13. vielle

    The Pulchritudinous Priestesses of Coth

    eirene valakis "So if you have an idea, speak it. Together, we will discover the path God wishes for us to walk in saving these poor women. Say not that you will leave us and throw yourself at them alone, however. I would never permit it." Eirene closes her eyes as she listens to the Holy Father and her Sister discussing this newfound plan that Eleanor has in mind for this dangerous dilemma. They are to go to the Brothers of Headon. They are to be delivered to the Warthog as virgin offerings. They are to infiltrate this vile knight’s lands and fight their way from within in order to save not only themselves but the virgins they seek to rescue from his wretched clutches. This way lies either divine knowledge or divine madness, Eirene concludes. “I’m sure this plan will work, I am almost certain. Please Father, Sisters, we have to help these girls, no matter the cost.” She is tempted to ask whether her Sister understands that the cost of the aid she asks for may be too high a price to give away, but then again, Eirene has never claimed to be the bravest of them. Still, a few moments pass by, between one breath and the next, before she has the courage to speak her mind to the others. “This is truly a brave plan, one granted by god himself,” she begins, smile gentle and considering as she turns her gaze to the elven twins, “but must we fight, my dear Sister? Can I suggest that we perhaps take the more clandestine approach?” She opens her arms wide for emphasis, painting a picture of her ideas in the air with the flutter of her fingers, coaxing her audience to hear her out. “We allow ourselves to be taken to Warthog, as what Sister Eleanor has discussed, and then we steal away the virgins from under his grasp. It is possible that we may lead them out without need for a fight.” Eirene takes a deep breath, clasps her hands together, looks down at her fingers entwined. “I cannot, in my right conscience, ask these women to fight alongside us should such a thing arise in our quest. I would prefer that we bring them to safety first before we retaliate against the knight. We may fight him, yes, but with the power of god on our side.”
  14. vielle


    celestine felsic Celestine winces at the peculiar sound echoing through the hall, the squelch of rotting flesh hit hard with great force. However, they all make their way into the next room, and she takes a moment to sigh and glance at the door from whence they came, eyebrows furrowing at the pitter patter of bodies slamming against the barred entryway. Persistent bastards, but it is no matter: they are alive and unscathed for now. "I've got a bit o' an anomaly, y'see. ‘alf dwarf, 'alf troll, y'see. Heavy bones and sturdy skin. Makes me hit 'ard, and the balls help. Sometimes, I use nails." “Charming,” Celestine replies offhandedly, taking up her tiger’s eye lens to scan the room and capture the scenery for future recall. As she begins to move her gaze further upward, the foreboding sense of unease crawls down her spine at the sight of the dried blood splatters, the jagged marks on the stone walls, the chains and gears long worn down by years and years of disuse. Upon seeing the array of spikes, Celestine’s jaw clenches. A trap, most definitely. Gods, but she feels sorry for whatever had been pummeled to death by those sharp points. And then, of course, the skeleton comes crashing down. “Watch out,” she yells to the others, moving away from the stray projectiles tumbling down upon them in a phosphorus hailstorm. Bones skitter across the stone floor, and in the chaos of noise, Roody the Bunny’s query almost drowns under the thunderous din. "Is this an ambush?" Celestine opens her mouth to answer when a giant piece of cartilage angles their way, and their guide promptly disappears from view, dashing into an alcove, quickly followed by Roody the Bunny’s own sidestep away from potential collision. She tucks and rolls into another alcove, pressing her body against the stone as the bone rolls by where the group had once stood. “What the hell,” she mutters under her breath, her gauntlets purring in excitement; if she needs to punch anything coming their way some time soon, whether it be the wooden construct or something else, then Celestine is ready as she’ll ever be. “Is everyone alright?” @Jotnotes @Hurttoto
  15. vielle

    Wynonna Sinclair

    Wynonna Sinclair — o captain my captain ; ► B A S I C S age: 36 race: human class: markswoman occupation: captain of the airship Cardinal birthplace: sigil, city of doors ► L O O K S height: 5'8” weight: 129 lbs gender: female hair: black streaked with silver eyes: steel grey voice: lively and smoky ♪ Children of the future, let me tell you somethin' Boogie is my life since when I was young ♪
  16. attackers: samael, ephah, rami | city of apolypse There is a striking sort of juxtaposition displayed across the expanse of Apolypse: the raging firelight crawling hungrily over the cityscape starkly bright against the darkened skies, the screams of those who are yet alive and seek to flee the impending destruction a ringing funeral dirge for the corpses littering the streets in deathly stillness, the loud wail stemming from the violent assault of the Paragons masking the silent movement of the boy and his entourage as they systematically make their way through the crumbling streets. Apolypse is dying, and they are the conductors to its final siren song. Another explosion rocks the ground for a moment, and Ephah follows suit as Samael braces himself closer to the ground, shattered rock tiles clattering sharply against the piles of debris and brick and mortar. The wave passes, and the three continue on their way, keeping to the shadows: silent harbingers of an altogether violent end. In the chaos of death and destruction, the crimson tide sings to her, and never before has Ephah felt so alive as now, where the very source of power she controls flows endless in rivulets wherever they go, tainting the streets dark and slick. She cannot help herself, and so her eyes glow as red as the blood that fuels her. Beside Ephah, the sun-haired man is grinning like a maniac, which she supposes he really is; perhaps he too can feel the sand enclosed within the mortar, and rejoices in the same way over the multitudinous quality of the material he holds control over. At the head of the group, Samael is all stiff gait and cold efficiency, his movements calculated as he leads them to weave through the alleyways and the alcoves, headed straight for the heart of the city. Swaddled in his coats, the boy looks harmless, if not for the sickly glint of Heartbane strapped to his waist. Ephah will have to advise that he hide it, when they infiltrate the town headquarters in an effort to hunt down the plans of the enemy, and altogether formulate countermeasures against them. “I see the building,” Rami quips, but the comment is not needed, not when they are all within sight of it now. Where information can be sought, there they will be. The Commander wills it. @Tyler @Metty
  17. vielle

    Mr Stark I don't feel so good [Relic Quest]

    Time slows to a crawl, and in the silence of the infinite abyss, Samael can hear his heart thumping steadily on, a loud drumbeat rhythm in his ears, and he has half a mind to simply let go, to not fight and struggle against the depths, when— A strong hand wrenches him free from the pull of the waves, faintly reminiscent of the manner in which he had been pulled out of that dark crevice in the caverns of Taen, and when his head breaks free into the air above, Samael takes a moment to breathe in a long gulpful of air, made all the more sweeter since its long absence in the vicinity of his lungs. The Commander is here. She had jumped in and followed him into the pit. Had he any heart left in him, Samael would have felt something akin to affection. "To shore!" Pulling himself together, he paddles after Lilith, keeping himself near her in case something dire happens once more. Eventually, he feels the violent surge of power flooding his veins once more, and after a few moments of treading water, Samael’s form disappears in a dark fog that arcs its way to shore, a ray of smoke shooting out of the waves and onto the jagged stones beyond. Blinking the last of the droplets from his eyes, Samael turns his gaze to their surroundings—and stares, a bit overcome. He deliberates that it would be best to wait for his Commander to get to shore before doing anything to explore or otherwise, however.
  18. vielle

    the frost in the veins [closed]

    He is about to heave a subtle sigh of relief, quietly rejoicing in the fact that the girl had so easily accepted the lie he had given her with trembling hands, even going as far as to offer to take him back to Hell’s Gate—which puts a devastating dent on his supposed brief jaunt into the woods to calm himself down, but it is ultimately a very nice gesture—when she turns those pale white eyes to the horizon, the pitter patter of rain falling down and drenching them in a matter of seconds. Neither do anything to acknowledge it. “That,” Samael begins, haltingly trying to bring himself to gently let down the girl’s suggestion, “that is very kind of you, but—” “You’re lying.” Those words stop him dead in his tracks, the rambling denial dying a quick death on his tongue. “I—I, uh—” There is the loud snap of branches cracking under pressure, the icy gale raking jagged fingers into the ground. He jolts at the sudden noise, and then begins to shake under the weight of the girl’s gaze, her feet slowly drawing her forward towards him. “Where did you come from? Do you have something to do with that thunderstorm?” Samael does nothing but tremble for a few moments; he knows when he is faced with a being far more powerful than he is, and what he must do to avoid befalling a tragic end at the hands of a violent storm. He can no longer be trusted, in her eyes. What else is there to do but tell the truth? “N-no, I don’t, but,” Samael purses his lips together, now blue in the cold of both snow and rain, “I know the one who does. I—I can—take you to her.”
  19. It takes four thousand steps in the snow—or perhaps five thousand; he had lost count somewhere halfway after almost stumbling over a wayward pebble—for the storm in his head to settle, to ease its winds from howling to whistling, to lessen the bite of the icy shards just enough to hear his own heartbeat over the noise. And oh, does his heart beat. Samael plods heavily across the white-blanket landscape, frowning at how his feet sink easily into the ground. He shakes his head, moves on with determination into the haze. What the Commander, the Mistress, the other Paragons do not know: he is tired. He has sobbed into the dark, into his warm-cold-warm fingers until he had choked, until he had blacked out for the lack of air. He had tried to pry off the metal pendant around his neck, had scratched his throat raw with sharp nails to take it off, take it off! He had begged, even, for the Voice to leave, for the Other Place, the Mirror Realm, to let him go. He is tired. The cold does not bother him, not when the cold is coming from within, from veins carrying blood too heavy, too sluggish to move. Samael takes a few more steps through the fog until he comes to a stop by a jagged rock. He sinks down, icy moisture seeping through his clothes, to sit on the ground and lean against it. He disappears into his head for a long moment, and the tears that curl against his eyelashes go unnoticed. @Csl
  20. vielle

    a superficial matter

    Summary: Lady Varda Hildebrand and Jasper Hildebrand pay a visit to House Senaria, where they receive treatment from their injuries received during the assassination attempt they had narrowly escaped from. @Ataraxy @Csl
  21. vielle

    a superficial matter

    In all things, there are limits, and perhaps her body has finally reached the last rungs of that crumbling ladder, pushed to its boundaries after the assassination attempt that has left her weakened, left her brother with one less hand to use. She has no other choice but to seek more help, and in this case, perhaps she can turn to her newfound allies for assistance. Varda closes her eyes as she leans her forehead on the carriage windowpane, trying to push the ever-present ache into a box in the back of her mind where she can conveniently ignore it in favor of their journey through Port Thea and up to Solaria Estates. It’s almost like a phantom, the constant companionship of her pain; they are attached at the hip, she and this ghost. It sickens her to no end. “We’re here, sister,” comes a familiar voice from somewhere distant, and slowly, she extricates herself from the comforting arms of slumber, back into the numbness of reality, that faint pulsing, aching throb. Her cane is pushed under her fingers, and as Varda blinks dazedly in her brother’s direction, Jasper gently pulls her forward, wraps her shawl around her shoulders and tugs her out to the steps of the Senaria estate. “Do you think their doctor can help?” The question comes unbidden, almost wrenched out of her throat, but then again, it is a query born of faint desperation. She does not want to imply her siblings are anything less than stellar, but there is only so much Nai’s herbal mixtures can do. It takes Jasper a while to respond, but when he does, it is pitched low for their ears alone, “There are things beyond even our own capabilities. It is not our fault, nor should you feel guilty about believing it so,” he admonishes her, firm and measured. “Now, House Senaria is capable where we are not. Hold your chin higher, sister. We shall need your composure now more than ever.” Varda does not respond any further than a chastened nod, and so the Hildebrand siblings await their host to greet them. @danzilla3
  22. vielle

    a superficial matter

    Varda watches in faint concern as Jasper’s face contorts in pain, the Doctor poking and prodding at his broken limb before it is measured, and then she is immediately distracted by the crisp and precise movements of Silas’ hands. How efficient, she thinks, a skilled physician works; it is strangely hypnotic, now that she is no longer bothered by pain, focusing now only on what she observes before her. "I like what I'm seeing. The nerve endings in the amputation site are still very responsive, and the cut appears to have been quite clean. I should be able to fashion you a suitable replacement within a weeks time; which is perfect, because that's when I would like to check the Lady's wound to make sure its healing properly." Her brother hums with satisfaction, refitting the wooden prosthetic on his hand as he makes his reply to the Doctor. “That’s good to hear, sir. Perhaps we could—” “You are welcome to Ravenel Manor any time you wish, Doctor Harriden,” Varda blurts out, and then pauses, suddenly unsure as to where that outburst had come from. Nevertheless, she finds her bearings, despite the slow-growing smirk on Jasper’s face, and continues on. “We would like to offer that you make the journey to us the next time around, and then we may show you our gratitude for the work you have done for us.” She smiles brightly, her brother circling towards her to wordlessly offer his support. “Won’t you visit us?”
  23. vielle

    slithered here from eden

    There are a fair few things that spell disaster for any self-respecting woman, and with these things enclosed in a handsome package that she imagines can allure even the most obstinate of wills, Quinton is a force to be reckoned with. In the wake of his devastating words of compliment, cutting deep below into the heart of her tangled-string insecurity, Varda can only breathe in deep and pray the flush of her cheeks does not make her look like a tomato. When her shattered equilibrium is brought to his attention, the man is gentle with her, quite at odds with his severe appearance, the darkness simmering along the edges of his brow, his jawline, and truly, it is all—rather unfair. Here she is, struggling to find her stability in the midst of faint echoes of ache and a fragile disposition, and there he is, calm and composed, as casual as ever. Perhaps Iyalon had been right after all; she is not well enough to face Quinton and not splinter to pieces before him. “Just earlier, you seemed, mm, dizzy. Is everything okay?” Varda sinks into the chair he has pulled out for her; she cannot show weakness, not now. Not when she does not yet know where she stands with this man before her. “I’m—I’m fine, I am,” she pauses, shallow breaths whispering up her throat, “not fine.” The room begins to shatter into nothingness along the edges of her vision, and her chest clenches tight. Breathing becomes a struggle. No, Varda thinks, no, not now. “I am sorry,” she murmurs brokenly, her grip on his sleeve slackening as the world grows dark and swallows her up into the black void.
  24. vielle

    Ursa Madeum Quest Board

    Claiming the quest to expand land for House Hildebrand once again 😊