Just please, {more time} [Dee/Lia]

kousei ♚
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now and forever

Just please, {more time} [Dee/Lia] Jun 11, 2016 16:51:34 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Jun 11, 2016 16:51:34 GMT -5

[attr="id","prestoPicture"]

R A V E N

{There's a radio silence going on}

Coming from a family with wealth beyond my wildest dreams comes with a plethora of costs: having siblings who can't seem to look someone in the eye without murdering them, an unquenchable thirst and being forced to train. I practically force my body into action and my legs to start taking baby steps on the road to the training centre. The routine has become a burden in itself, the costs of wealth sometimes outweigh the advantages and it's times like these when the dirt looks just a bit more welcoming than usual. After all, the cost of wealth is so great it's easy to forget to reap the benefits.

Coming from a family with wealth beyond my wildest dreams not only comes with a plethora of costs, but it also comes with a multitude of rules and regulations - at least being a Blackmore does. Rule one: be the most ruthless killer the world's ever fucking seen. A rulebook slammed into the desk in front of me from a young age, I'm pretty sure I've broken more than half the rules in that damn book of rules. I'm nowhere near a ruthless killer and when I train I don't aspire to be one; when I train I aspire to survive.

Training clothes already decorated across my body, I step through the doors with a false confidence stitched across my chest for all to see. This is simply the routine but the routine's become a bitter burden; the rules of being a Blackmore seem to dominate me in more ways than just one. Rule two: it's a sin to show weakness. That's why confidence blares loud and clear from the depths of my dimmed eyes. I've been hiding weakness and waiting for time to blur for a good sixteen years now - weakness is a sin anyway.

Still, despite all my artificial light and confidence, no one notices me and I've never been more relieved to be practically invisible. Countless years I chained myself to the wall, huddled in the corner and hid inside my cell, just anxiously waiting for time to blur by as best as it could. I rejected the keys and clung to tightly to my shackles, shaking my head at any opportunity to break the metal binding me to obscurity. It's funny, how it seems the damn rulebook was slammed onto my desk from the day I could walk but I already break rule three by nature. My approach is weakness in it self.

Clenching my jaw, my eyes scan over the numerous career boys and girls doing their training. Today's free day where we can practice whatever we want - an illusion of freedom but I can't complain; I don't think I've ever tasted the real thing. The grey, almost mechanical, flooring and the artificial dummies with the plethora of weapons for everyone to try out. The career training centre is vast but I see through the illusion of power and freedom. In reality, we're all surrounded by whitewashed walls - me especially.

I ignore them, training on my own has always been better. Other people just get in the way. The allure of the knives station is strong today just as it's always been. Steel splitting skin to reveal what's inside has always been on the forefront of my brain. My movement's automatic and I find myself running my forefinger down the blunt edge of the blade and down the handle before I even blink. My eyes narrow on the knife as I twirl it between my fingers, my concentration is hard as rock.

The fantasies flood in like a tidal wave. Skin tearing, blood gushing, flecks of spatter staining the ground, trees and especially my face. My tongue instinctively moves to my lips before I remember there's nothing actually there, just flesh. I sigh and lower my eyes to the ground ashamedly.

For all the damn rules in that metaphorical book I broke the final rule didn't fail to trap me in it's grasp. Final four: every Blackmore has something wrong with them, without exception. With a grunt of frustration I stick the tip of the knife into the stand and scowl. For every failure that came with the broken rule I didn't break that one. Every last rule in between rule one and final laid scattered on the ground but I couldn't shatter the last one.

Suddenly, my train of thought is broken by something and I feel myself dragged back into the here and now. My gaze shoots up to take in the fact that I girl, who looks around my age, is standing barely a few meters away. Unlike everyone else, the routine lays in ruins around her feet because something doesn't look right. It's not the way it should be.

I break from the shell of introversion and step past the table of knives and stride next to her and introversion lingers behind me as a trail of shell shards. "Are you okay?" I ask, and not even I know if my own tone of concern is genuine or fabricated. Unlike the rules I fail to follow, I suppose it doesn't really matter at this point.

(Theme: James Blake - Radio silence) | (Tags: ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ )

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ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ
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last seen Jan 3, 2023 20:19:37 GMT -5

I go "Grawr!" =)

Just please, {more time} [Dee/Lia] Jul 3, 2016 18:22:25 GMT -5

Post by ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ on Jul 3, 2016 18:22:25 GMT -5

Everything had to be fluid, everything had to be smooth. Every day I keep practicing my movements and yet it’s not enough as my trainer blocks all of my moves and I’m forced to play defense. Ever since I told my trainers that I wanted to become proficient in fighting with two knives, I have only been met with looks of doubt and uncertainty. Wouldn’t it be better to have a power weapon in one hand and a defensive weapon in another? Or maybe focus only one weapon first. But I had been stubborn and adamant, and I trained because there was no place else I could be.

Home was a waste of time, school was a waste of time. Once I was certain I was going to be a fighter, it was the only goal I had in sight. Yet with every shallow cut that sliced at my skin, with every puncture that would litter by arms and legs, it’s hard for me to see that goal. Still, I can’t let myself give up and I keep fighting back, knowing I’m only fighting a losing battle. It isn’t until my trainer slices through several layers of skin and muscle in my upper arm that the sparring stops, my trainer stepping back and barking orders at me. “Go patch up that wound. You’ve done enough for today.”

Rage, anger, fear all boils up inside me as I keep my feet planted, staring at him with a cold glare. “I’m fine. Let’s keep going,” I bark back, my knives held tight in my hands as I assume an attack position. But my trainer isn’t in the mood to humor me and his anger is starting to match mine. “You’re done for today! Go home.” I scowl at him but know better than to fight him back at this stage. If I haven’t been able to block his attacks, what use would it be for me to try anything?

I move off the mats, scowling at the cut my trainer left me and the blood that has started leaking from it. The wound isn’t very deep, but I know if I don’t place pressure on it immediately, it could do some real damage. Grabbing my towel, I put heavy pressure on the wound, grimacing at the slight sting and thinking about how I’m going to wash it. I don’t want to go home, not yet, and so I stand there, wondering if my trainer can still see my glares.

A question floats into my ear, taking some time before my brain can register what was being said. A boy, taller than me and around my age, is standing there, his attention directed toward me. Why is he talking to me? Why does he care? Does he even care? I lift the towel off my wound to peek at it; the bleeding has slowed but still needs some proper bandaging. “It’s fine,” I say brusquely. “It’s just a cut.” Concern isn’t something I am used to. Maybe my father would give it to me, but he's rarely home and my stepmother really isn’t the type. The boy is still standing there, and I’m not sure if he’s waiting for his turn but I might as well talk to him if I’m going to try to pass time.

“The mat’s free if you’re trying to practice,” I tell him, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. After all, conversations are normal at the training centre, right? He doesn’t have a weapon in his hand, and it’s hard to tell what he would specialize in, but there must be a reason why he’s near the knives table. And that’s when an idea comes to my head. Maybe the trainer might have ordered me home, but there was no way this boy could have known. “Wanna spar? I could do with some more practice and cuts and bruises.” It seems like a great idea at the time. Anything so I don't have to go home.

^credit to Shrimp

char info yayy

kousei ♚
Mentor

2,011 POSTS
Pronouns: He/Him/His
last seen May 7, 2022 17:23:18 GMT -5

now and forever

Just please, {more time} [Dee/Lia] Jul 20, 2016 8:54:53 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Jul 20, 2016 8:54:53 GMT -5

[attr="id","prestoPicture"]

R A V E N

{There's a radio silence going on}

I take a good look at her and I swear my heart leaps into my throat. Streaks of red decorate her skin, each one varies in depth but I know from experience they were all caused by blades. Blade cause blood. “It’s just a cut.” She replies quicker than I expected, no pause or time wasted. It's surprisingly abrupt.

I'm stunned into an unwilling silence. It's just a cut. Cuts riddle her flesh and already I can see lines of red, blood welling up out of the wounds. I don't know why I'm surprised, injuries are common in the training centre and even more common in my household. A Blackmore should never be fazed by blood or wounds, it's a crystal clear rule. Still, even for training she's a mess. Streaks of crimson decorate her skin like antiques hung on our mansion wall and a strange but threatening thick around her; she looks as if she could tear me apart.

My vision lingers over the cuts specifically. Internally, my brain is practically chanting, willing droplets to well out of the wounds and spill onto the ground. I'm wearing a mask of calm concern while my composure internally breaks down and decays at the sight of red. It's a sturdy mask, no cracks through the eye holes and no sign of panic. I almost convince myself that I'm calm.

In truth, I'm anything but. I clench my jaw in imaginary anticipation. The taste of thick metal is phantom, not quite there but a mile away. I don't even know who she is. But blood is blood, it doesn't matter the name attached to the blood. It's always got the same consistency, barely thicker than water, it's always got the metallic tang against my tongue. It always brings the same feeling of hot, shot and electric afterwards and always keeps me feeling so alive. In truth, it's more needed than water.

I wonder if the blood that teeters on the edge of spilling from those wounds is any different.

“The mat’s free if you’re trying to practice,” Her words cut through the fantasy, dragging me back into the here and now, I look up from the cuts and towards the mat she indicated. I simply nod in acknowledgement, I don't even know what I should practice at this point. I'm aimless, simply drifting through and hoping I don't get caught at the wrong time. “Wanna spar? I could do with some more practice and cuts and bruises.”

The invitation catches me off-guard and I half expect something else to follow it. If there is one thing I have learned it's that people do not simply invite me to something without an ulterior motive. Especially me, the nobody of the family who hides in his bedroom all day, waiting for time to blur and hoping no one seems him. I was just leaving. Those four words would be so easy to say, easy to just walk away and never see her again; but I cannot. Not when streaks of crimson have tempted me, the essence flowing through he veins tempting me.

It would be simple really, even if I was to somehow lose, I could definitely get a good few valuable cuts in and she would be even more exposed. I haven't thought of what would happen after, somehow, I will have my taste. I shouldn't.

A Blackmore can't follow morals, no matter how strongly he wants to.

My speech and movement is practically automatic. "Sure, I could do with more practice in cutting and bruising people." I state with a smile as I walk over to the rack, skipping over the rows until I find one that looks appealing. I clutch it in my hand, the feeling is natural, practically an extension of my fingertips. I turn back to her, the clean mask donned proudly.

"I wish it were a sword, but I need practice with knives," I say it loudly with a smile on my face, I can practically taste the metal.

I breathe in

and out.

"I'm Raven, by the way." I tell her, intentionally leaving out my last name. Without saying another word I take countless, quick steps and I'm already in clear striking distance. I'm automatic, and I move with a drive to make that phantom taste a tangible reality.

(I'm Raven and I'm only in this for your blood.)

It makes sense, invitations are never given out or accepted without an ulterior motive; I'm only trying to follow the rules.

I'm fucking disgusting.

(Theme: James Blake - Radio silence) | (Tags: ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ )

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Last Edit: Jul 20, 2016 8:56:37 GMT -5 by kousei ♚

ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ
Retired Staff

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last seen Jan 3, 2023 20:19:37 GMT -5

I go "Grawr!" =)

Just please, {more time} [Dee/Lia] Jul 21, 2016 17:05:46 GMT -5

Post by ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ on Jul 21, 2016 17:05:46 GMT -5

It’s hard to tell what is going on in his mind. His lips nor his eyes offer many answers, as if he is going through the movements required in life, as if there was little meaning and purpose. But he has to have a goal. He’s in the training center where the ambitious succeed and the aimless are left in the dust. He agrees, however, which spreads the corners of my lips into a grin. My trainers can try to send me home all they want, but once it comes to sparring, there is little they can do.

I remove the towel from the cut—it will be pointless once I’m on the mat—and grab my knives. The loss of blood doesn’t stop my itching to keep moving, to keep pushing myself until the only place I can go is a treatment center. Even there feels more like home than the house I live in. Between the knives in my hands and I, there is little else I can ask for in life—besides regular sustenance. But even when I am hungry, even when I am thirsty, the itch in my fingers and back of my mind consume me until I can be on the mat again. My goal, my drive.

“Ha, if I was stronger, I would spar you with swords.” But his preference for a sword doesn’t negate his ability to use a knife, his grip already showing years of practice. Good. It’ll be good to fight against someone who knows what he’s doing. The trainers are good, but there is a difference between fighting someone who is trying to teach you and someone who wants to fight. He provides me his name, a quick introduction as if his name means little to us. He’s not wrong; in this moment, at this time, our names mean nothing. His next few steps bring the two of us closer together and it’s up to me to close the distance, to begin the practice.

“I’m Lia,” I respond, throwing my name on to the mat only for it to disappear just as his name had. And without waiting for more small talk, I take those last few steps and strike first.

OOC: Fight found here

Last Edit: Jul 21, 2016 17:11:47 GMT -5 by ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ

^credit to Shrimp

char info yayy

kousei ♚
Mentor

2,011 POSTS
Pronouns: He/Him/His
last seen May 7, 2022 17:23:18 GMT -5

now and forever

Just please, {more time} [Dee/Lia] Jul 30, 2016 19:00:08 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Jul 30, 2016 19:00:08 GMT -5

[attr="id","prestoPicture"]

R A V E N

{There's a radio silence going on}

Confidence and ulterior motives quickly blend together and are left scattered in the dust as I grit my teeth from agony. Her knife moves in a flash before my eyes (in an attempt to be polite) I let her strike first only to feel flashes of regret for she had down right torn my right arm right open. Her steel knife is practically a flash and my confidence stays scattered at my feet.

Mistakes piled together after that, slurring together like my former confidence and ulterior motives, and my attacks failed to have the same bite. Lacerations that barely broke the skin against her neck, chest and hip while my vision quickly faded into crimson as she practically turned my arms into ruins, cutting and stabbing into them until I could barely hold my knife any more. In the back of my head, I hear amused laughter and disappointed grunts.

Gritting my teeth and refusing to let any tears spill, her knife bites into my bicep like a rabid dog. I let out a quick yell as I stumble back and lose my footing, hitting the floor with an embarrassing but oh so real bang! Patterns of crimson swim in my vision and streams of blood flow from my wounds like a red waterfall from a crimson grin tattooed onto my body. The knife slips from my fingertips and hits the matt at my side; she must know as well as I do that it's a silent white flag.

A Blackmore is never supposed to surrender, surrender is a sign of weakness and a Blackmore can't show weakness. We're supposed to be cold-blooded killers who don't care about anything or anyone but ourselves. I should be able to slit throats with a smile on my face, not get cut up to some girl who's more fatigued and smaller than me. I was always forbidden from waving the white flag because it was a declaration of surrender and surrender is a sign of weakness.

By letting the knife slip from my fingertips, I raised the white flag to call the ceasefire and I'm internally cringing from it. Already the voices of my older, stronger and vicious family members can be heard in the deep chambers of my brain ('The fuck kind of career are you?') I don't need to face them to hear the sneers of ('You always were the weak one, no wonder you can't kill anyone.') Their words are sharper than knives in their own right, piercing my already trembling skin with a relentlessness that can't be stopped by a white flag and to think it's not even a reality yet.

My hand drops from my wound; there are too many to even contemplate applying pressure to and I look up to see her and prop myself up in seated position. Through the literal stab wounds and the imagined verbal lacerations ('Th fuck kind of career are you?') I manage a half smile, freezing at each unrelenting jab ('You were always the weak one,') and a dry, meaningless chuckle. "I suppose I was just distracted by your attractiveness," between each word there is a slight yet sharp internal wince but I make sure to be emphasis on the last word.

Between the lake of crimson I properly take in Lia's features and it was no lie what I said, well besides the being distracted part, but I can't appreciate it. Golden brown hair, short stature and her shallow wounds are starting to well up with blood. Still, she's not quite to the same degree as me bleeding but at least she's bleeding - that's probably the best part. I instinctively move to get up and regret quickly washes over me to accompany the sudden dull pain, forcing me to grimace. ('You always were the weak one.') No one I know in particular being here is a saving grace of the surrender; there is no one to watch the white flag wave proudly and no one to ridicule the one waving it.

Stop, I pause and remember - I'm fucking bleeding everywhere.

"Guess - I'm gonna need to - stop myself - from bleeding everywhere, " I say, gesturing to the gashes on my arms with my head. Red's my world and dull pain is my gain. Her knife fell against my fragile skin and tore it to ribbons casually, maybe she'll help me put it back together. Red spills down my body and across my vision but there is no sign of anger there.

I take a glance , quickly scanning the training centre, and see that the medical equipment is a good few feet away and my shoulders drop in despair. "On - second thought, think - you could help - me with this?" I ask, looking up at Lia from my seated position.

('You always were the weak one, no wonder you can't kill anyone.')

It makes a deeper wound and no white flag will stop this knife. My eyes drop - Tuff would be fill the air with laughter if he could see me now. I lost fair and square and got myself beaten senselessly. ('The fuck kind of career are you?') I always had the tiniest sense of arrogance when it came to blades, I always held a small sense of pride because using a blade to make someone bleed; it was supposed to be my speciality. ('So what exactly are you good at, Raven Blackmore?')

Nothing, I suppose.

As always, I somehow manage to wear a fake smile. I can't sit and chain myself against the wall and wait for time to blur this time, I'm not allowed to be weak any more. I already dared break the rule by waving the white flag; I'd best not do it again.

(Theme: James Blake - Radio silence) | (Tags: ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ )

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ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ
Retired Staff

1,911 POSTS
last seen Jan 3, 2023 20:19:37 GMT -5

I go "Grawr!" =)

Just please, {more time} [Dee/Lia] Aug 28, 2016 23:10:00 GMT -5

Post by ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ on Aug 28, 2016 23:10:00 GMT -5

Just as soon as our ~~battle~~ fight started, it ended with a slip of the knife and a soft thump on the mat. My trainers had spent most of my training telling me that I was never going to succeed as a career, that they didn’t understand why I was still in the center. Well, whatever they had said, I internalized it and let my instincts take over. I wish I had made the conscious decision to attack his arms—they were unprotected, difficult for him to remove from range-but the truth was that it was probably as far as I could reach. He had more length than me, hitting my arm, chest, neck, but I wasn’t one to back down and until that knife fell from his hands, I thought he was the same way.

Was I disappointed? Somewhere deep in my chest, I suppose I was. I didn’t expect another career to give up so easily, to have fought until we were both in need of more blood, but I had guessed incorrectly. My eyebrow raised when he tried to tell me about his “distraction”, an excuse as dry as his smile and chuckle. But he wasn’t wrong about needing to stop the bleeding; as much as I had attacked his arms, the cuts were still deep and the blood loss wasn’t little. So when he mentioned needing help, I didn’t hesitate to spring to action.

“Take these,” I told him, handing the white towels that were surely going to turn red in a matter of seconds. After making sure he hadn’t passed out on me, I hopped off the mat and briskly walked toward the medical kit. Sure, I wasn’t a healer, but we were all taught the skills needed to survive in the arena, one of the main ones being first aid. Everything in the kit was familiar, despite the unsure feeling my hands were feeling as I aimlessly grabbed for them. Kneeling down beside him, I held onto his arm to see how deep the cut was.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, unsure of how much meaning I had in those words. I was not sorry for sparring him, not sorry for not holding back. But I did feel an ounce of remorse for having to cause him this much pain. My hair created a curtain between us, barely letting in enough light for me to stitch up the deep cuts. I winced as I saw his right bicep, where my knife had dug in twice, but I refused to say anything as the needle pierced skin to close the wound.

It wasn’t until I saw other droplets of red that I realized I myself was bleeding. The cuts were light, only deep enough to cause a light trickle down my body. It was nothing I couldn’t wash off after I placed a little pressure on them. I looked up at him and noticed that he hadn’t said much. “Not much of a talker, are you?” With the last stitch, I knotted the thread and cut it with my teeth. “It’s a piss poor job, but it looks like it’ll hold,” I said to the crisscross pattern on his arm. Finally, I lifted my eyes to look at him.

There was something about being so close, to no longer having that barrier of knives or hair between us that made me freeze. I waited for something, anything, to break the silence, but nothing felt appropriate as I knelt there, just looking at him. “You should…should still get those checked out,” I muttered quietly.

^credit to Shrimp

char info yayy

kousei ♚
Mentor

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Pronouns: He/Him/His
last seen May 7, 2022 17:23:18 GMT -5

now and forever

Just please, {more time} [Dee/Lia] Sept 17, 2016 20:23:11 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Sept 17, 2016 20:23:11 GMT -5

[attr="id","prestoPicture"]

R A V E N

{There's a radio silence going on}

Behind my mask, I can feel myself suppressing a long sigh of relief when she agrees to help me. Anyone I know would've left me to fix myself up or simply bleed ('you always were the weak one' because that's what Blackmore's do to weak people. They leave them to rot. I distrust people because I've seen behind the masks real people like to wear; I've seen what real people are behind their fake smiles, expensive suits and pleasantries.

We're monster, me included.

Distrust is my shield and my tongue is my sword. Despite all of that, pain of my barrier, slowly tearing down my self assuring smile piece by piece. Perhaps it's not just the physical pain, but the humiliation as well ('you were always the weak one') and the thought of what if they saw me right then? They would say I surrendered too early, that I was an idiot for letting her cut me so many times so easily, that I'm incompetent for not dealing enough damage to her. After all, I had too many clear shots (I even managed to hit her neck for fucks sake) but they all lacked depth. No wonder I don't kill people, I lack the ruthlessness and tenacity to even consider it. I'm not like them but I'm still a monster in my own way.

I suppose it's a relief when she springs into action between the next drop of blood hitting the floor and my wince of pain when I accidentally brush the wound after asking for help. She's opened red fleshy craters in my skin and at just the sight of them I suppress the urge to yell.

It's bitter irony that I, who cherishes the blood of others, is slowly spiralling into panic at the sight of his own. The cry practically catches in my throat and I cherish the silence from me; not even a single complaint. As if that's some redeeming quality for the situation. I am shattered under the pain but I fear nothing but the very idea of someone from home finding out about what I have become, where I am ... who I lost to. Everything would slowly descend into chaos as the building blocks to the structures that make up my world slowly collapse around me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers and my hairs stand on end. I suppress the urge to stroke her cheek and ask her what she's sorry for. Slicing my flesh, wounding my pride, collapsing the structures of my world around me. Each breath I hear building blocks after building blocks hitting the ground but I can't tell her she better be sorry because there's nothing to apologise for. "Don't be-"

Words collapsing from my tongue are quickly cut off by rough groans through gritted teeth as she begins stitching the wounds on my bicep with the needle and thread. “Not much of a talker, are you?” She remarks before the dull pain stops and I'm left to cradle the throb in my bicep.

"Sorry, just not much to talk about when your bicep's being sewn back together again," I remark back, forcing myself to smile. Her next sentence is blurred and quickly fades and mixes into the silence. Nothing matters in this moment, between us and the blood that's slowly stopped pooling I am as weightless as the air between us. In the silence, she stops and stares at me, as if waiting for me to say something, do something. Between the silence and being weightless, I forget what the words 'thank you' even mean when I look into her eyes and she stares back.

“You should…should still get those checked out,” it's a weak way to break the silence but I am brought back down to earth all the same. No longer weightless as air and no longer pondering what to do with the weight of family around my neck, I find myself focused on one thing entirely. "Should be fine, worst comes to worst I just get someone to kiss them better," I say with another weak smile, despite the dull throb from the stitches literally holding my skin together and my unquenched thirst for her blood I find myself lost in an inexplicable plane of calmness.

"Seriously, thank you for this, really," I tell her, before looking down before a new thought makes itself known. My jaw is automatic, my words aren't even thought out, I just speak without regard for the fact I should be going home and resting. "Let me make it up to you, however way you want; it's the least I can do."

Thirst makes people do foolish things, especially me, I am a monster for blood after all.

(Theme: James Blake - Radio silence) | (Tags: ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ )

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Last Edit: Sept 17, 2016 20:23:44 GMT -5 by kousei ♚