albinomilksnake | OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

Palermo, Sicily.

( There's a certain point where nothing can layer over the blood on your hands. It'll just keep seeping through, drenching and drying through each layer so they stick together and fester. Helena can't help but wonder, sometimes, if she's deluding herself, if she's just fast tracking herself to a grave in the foundations of some new building works with all this.

Smuggling op, maybe, but she wants to take apart the families, and wants them to burn and writhe and know they're bleeding out and suffer through their deaths the way her mother did. The families are much a part of Sicily as orange blossom and the soil under their feet. They come hand in hand with invasion, violence and the brutal divide between those who have and those who haven't. Water in the mouth, they'd say, because you must never speak. I see everything, I say nothing. She only needed to worry about who it was that might be seeing her, and how much more blood that would tally up to - if she was corrupting herself irreversibly. (She'd been corrupted the day she was born, more than likely.)

It's seems innocuous enough, one of Sicily's wealthiest daughters waiting at the table and flipping through a menu as she waits for someone to come and fill the chair across from her. Guillermo better not be screwing her over, but at least there's a little less chance of him doing that when Sicily isn't his home. The odds of her asking him to cast away some other loyalty is less, but then the odds of him having any great loyalty to her is diminished, too.

So she waits at her table on the balcony of a fancy restaurant that overlooks the city at night, and tries not to remember the gun at her thigh or the knife in her dress. )

Edited 2014-02-04 00:07 (UTC)

[ these gifs are super predictable anyway exsilium au, chloe ends up in neverland?? or just au pirate chloe! or canon au chloe in neverland lbr they went for zombies and fake yetis, it could happen. ]

[Korok doesn't have a lot of energy lately, but he takes what he has and carries it to Eversong. He can't remember the last time he saw any of his awkward extended family (was it even proper to call them that? He tried not to think about it too hard), but after how the tension had raised in Orgrimmar, he was looking for any excuse to not be there.

Making the journey across the sea is not easy when blind, but he manages with his staff to guide him. He had considered traveling back to Alterac to find another Frostwolf to bond with, but had not yet made the commitment. After all, he was old. There was no telling when the ancestors would take him.

He gets a lot of nasty looks from elves these days thanks to Garrosh and though he can not see the glares in his direction, they are keenly felt. Its a slow journey, with a few awkward stops from guards and constructs heckling him to inspect the cargo he carries under his arm before he manages to locate whos door he is looking for.

He taps the frame roughly with his wolf-headed staff and pulls his furs a bit closer as he senses someone stopping behind him to watch.]

Edited 2014-02-06 00:00 (UTC)

[It was becoming harder and harder to hide his movement in the City with so many eyes on him. Granted, that had been exactly what he had wanted, though it would have been much easier if the Master was still around to scare off the more brazen folk who had been following him around. For now, he simply had to rely on witless cultists covering his tracks. So far, they had done well...but Kel'thuzad was not a fool. Without more numbers, they would be swept aside and he would be face to face with the ground. Again.

Not the worst fate in the world, but not one he was looking to repeat.

Today, he abandons his more traditional necromancy robes in favor of a modern day suit to blend him with the business crowd he was recruiting. The boney mask that typically covered his sunken face was replaced by a magical spell that restored an imagine of youth, and colored his hair black to prevent suspicion. The glow of his eyes was hidden as well, though the chains that usually circled his waist has been relocated to his wrists, hidden expertly under his sleeves. A very convincing disguise...for most.

He bears just a bit too much resemblance his past life, but anyone just passing by the man and his collection of people gathered around him on the streets would not pick up on that. Not until they disperse with papers in their hand and he turns to walk off.]

[Aurelius hasn't seen his wife in days. He's been gone to Northrend, fighting the good fight, cleaning up the endless remains of the Scourge. There's a new Lich King on the throne, but you wouldn't know it to see the shambling hordes of undead still wandering the countrysides. Aurelius spends at least a third of each week at this task, though he knows it means significant time away from his family.

But he has to do it, doesn't he? He has to atone for the things he's done. The people he murdered. This is the only way.]

Honey, I'm home.

[He squints into the darkness of his house. His son has long since departed; gone to shack up with some goblin somewhere. But where's his wife?]

I'm sorry, do I know you? [Coming from the Tony Stark, the question is less moored in sarcasm than usual. Because he could, in fact, be very familiar with this woman's, uh...credentials. But since he isn't asking to see them and she isn't offering, she's gonna have to drop him a hint or get lost.

He signals the bartender to top off his Scotch--pointedly does not order a glass for his female companion--and then drags the sunglasses down to the tip of his nose and eyeballs the stone-faced lady at his elbow.] Hate to break it to you, hon, but I’m spoken for.

Edited 2014-03-04 09:43 (UTC)

Edited 2014-06-02 09:27 (UTC)

[She hasn't improved. Half a cycle spent sealed into a suit that only barely keeps her alive and functioning and it's all starting to feel a bit pointless: she can't fight, can't help with repairs or efficiently manage system functions to aid either pilot or Scorpius without exhaustion settling in.

Logically, she knows Aeryn Sun now costs more than she's worth.

But that doesn't mean she's any closer to pulling the plug than she was when she'd first put on the suit-- just a little more realistic about the eventualities of it. That she's leaned against the main console, attempting to hack out a few basic repairs with her eyes set on the vast, blank canvas of space behind Moya's screens, isn't really unusual.

She's not waiting for anything, she tells herself.]

[Coming back from Earth hadn't been easy. There had already been discussions to move forward into Tormented Space, but the negotiations hadn't started yet. John still has an itch -- several itches, as a matter of fact, that couldn't be scratched.

He remembers, distantly, hearing of Valdun and what rested there in the Uncharted Territories. He hadn't waited for someone to stop him from shipping off in the middle of making contact. In retrospect, it had been easy to cut and run while everyone was bickering over how to handle the prospective sellers of star charts. He goes before he can be confronted on what had happened on Earth's surface, before anyone can corner him into answering questions he doesn't want to answer.

Crichton had questions of his own, and things he needed to say to people he could no longer say them to. The only people who could assist him rested in the Uncharted Territories, on that mystic planet nobody seemed to want to talk about around him.

He had a feeling Stark would still be there with his answers...as well as a few others he had missed in the cycle of life -- one recently departed friend among them. Getting down to the surface under cover isn't as hard as he initially imagined, and disguising himself proves to be rather easy with all the cloaked beggars about.

John moves along the rusted streets. Alone.]

Edited (what is spelling at 7:30am) 2014-06-19 11:21 (UTC)

[Recon has become normal, now that Koprulu was no longer safe for her and the Raiders. They needed to find firepower, other people who would go after Mengsk. Kerrigan was never a fan of other people fighting her battles. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, but they simply didn't have the manpower or the firepower. That voice in her head was getting worse, and they were running out of time.

It'd taken every ounce of the Hyperion's fuel to cross the Milky Way, and several years at least. Kerrigan wasn't even sure Mengsk was still following them by the time they found an uncharted sector of space, with no planets or vessels anyone had recognized. She had departed the ship without prompting, before anyone could try and follow her. She was easily the most qualified, and she had weapons the others didn't have.

Psionics. The zerg mutagen. Most of her hoped that she wouldn't need either, but she did not pretend she wouldn't need to consider the possibility. Either way, Kerrigan quickly docks the dropship in the hull of the first vessel she spots, canister rifle in hand as she waits for cockpit to depressurize to let her out.]

Edited 2014-09-07 18:31 (UTC)

[Grunt has decided that after spending as much time as he did on the Normandy that he isn't all that fond of travel, but that didn't mean that he didn't have to cooperate once in a while. Of course, that cooperation was contingent on what the end result of said journey would be. If there was promised blood, then there was a promised krogan waiting to take it.

So Grunt paces on foot, waiting for his team to arrive to pick him up. The planet takes some getting used to -- unlike the dry, radioactive climate of Tuchanka, the planet he's been summoned to is cold and wet...almost uncomfortably so for the large reptile. The result is an irritable growling sort of noise, and his attention occasionally turning toward the ship's wings, as if he's contemplating ripping them off to let off steam.

But instead, there is a tell-tale click of his shotgun as he loads a shell into the barrel to fire off at a tree. Much more productive than ripping the wings of his transport and angering its crew further.]

[Somehow, even artificial sunlight isn't enough to keep Jack's back from going stiff in his shoulders. It wasn't exactly a comfortable pose. He'd already terminated at least two body doubles for it, and the digital copies glitched out visually too often for the artist sculpting.

He'd already had a few artists terminated too. This one in front of him has learned not to talk back or ask questions or--talk at all, really. He's been hunched for a good two hours, and his expression has gone from pensive to agitated, and the boiling point is close.

Despite the fact that he has closed his eyes to try and clear the angry pulsing in the front of his head, he doesn't miss the subtle click of cowboy boots approaching. He shouts before she even enters his line of sight, and keeps his eyes closed. Its a fight to keep from moving, and he can't see that the artist has paused due to the twitching in his fingers.]

I thought I told you to wait upstairs.

[Say what you like about Skyhold - something complimentary about it's strategic location, how an opposing army would have to come marching well up the Frostbacks and spend plenty of time within a line of sight and fire, the quality of the fortifications now that most of the patchwork had been admirably handled by the Inquisition's Quartermaster and his cadre of builders - but it was still stuck up at the top of a mountain in the middle of winter. At this rate her hands are going to fall straight off. Inconvenient that, given she's in the middle of trying to refletch a few arrows and rather needs her fingers to do a proper job of it.

Maren Trevelyan, sent running to the Inquisition's aid at the behest of her Father after the fall of Haven and the murmurs of a true divinity touched Herald that had risen in the wake (much like, they said, the Inquisitor himself had risen from the ashes of that place - appropriate, given the Temple so near there), sits very close to the fire in the great hall. Her feet are all but in the embers themselves, the collar of her coat turned up against her neck. Would that she could do the work with some bloody gloves on, but she's bare handed as she carefully wraps the thin threads of silk at the base of the sealed feathers. It's delicate work and takes up what's left of her attention not currently devoted to cursing the cold.

Maker, how she misses Ostwick with it's warm sunrises and it's lovely double walls keeping the chill sea air at bay, how the sun warmed every courtyard and winters were largely defined by storms and a rocking, angry sea as opposed to snow and freezes.

She struggles to tie a knot. Wrinkles her nose--]

Come along, damn you.

Edited 2015-02-20 22:45 (UTC)

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