bleeding spirits { ravensteel } phresh

tick 12a / calla
RP Tutor

2,245 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Nov 21, 2024 23:14:10 GMT -5

just a litle creacher

bleeding spirits { ravensteel } phresh Nov 18, 2017 16:10:39 GMT -5

Post by tick 12a / calla on Nov 18, 2017 16:10:39 GMT -5

you rise and fall
back up against the wall
what goes around is
coming back and haunting you

Disappearing acts and scattered heart beats.

We are the lucky few.

Left behind with the synthetic smell of training mats and the bite of a sword hilt in our palms, there's purpose here, in this tirade of energy. There's an escape in the form of violence, in early morning slashes and sweat sheens.

Following in the footsteps of idols and dreamers, never good enough but we push harder because don't you want to be immortal? Heroes always seem to get the girl in the end, a fairy tale ending, but we all gave up heroics a long time ago. Buried with childhood and thrown away with innocence. The burning of bed time stories, hopes and dreams seem so infantile when you're surviving on spite and vengeance.

There's a special kind of ignorance in bruised knuckles and drowned out thoughts, swinging a sword until you're numb just to feel something other than rage. Self destruction might end up killing us before anyone can make a move.

An eye for an eye is the saying, echoing across alleyways, and I've been waiting for Brynden to return the favour for much too long. The day of reckoning only stands out in hindsight. A whirlwind of rage, bloodlust spilling red onto my hands and a sudden moment of holy fuck. But it's fleeting and the burn still sits low in my gut because you can't just pass shit like that off as an accident.

( Maybe it's not quite an accident if you revel in it afterwards. )

Opposite sides of a coin, Bloodraven and Bittersteel, facades built to endure and hold legions together. More alike than either wants to admit because who's going to be the one to accept villainy?

Heroes are the ones who always get the girl.

But now Brynden says he has an army, eyes all over the district and outcasted careers grovelling behind him with violence tattooed into their skin. A craving reflected in their eyes, echoing across the distance to harbour in my own sorry followers.

Watching your own back is second nature now, a looming threat waiting around the corner and everyone is on edge from the tension hanging in the air. There's a war coming and I can feel it in my bones, the call of a h a r b r i n g e r , with a telltale ache that sings of crushed ribs and watercolour bruises. Old lessons hammered into my skull and onto my blade, listen son, you've got to cut them all down before they do the same to you. It's all there in the history books.

Selfish and spiteful.

A limb from a training dummy falls to the floor with a synthetic thunk.

And maybe I'm a piece of shit, a catalyst for a war that shouldn't even be started in the first place. There's already been casualties, but if anything they've fueled the growing fire. Egos can be groomed to peak status again and gunshot hauntings can be drowned out with delicately placed hatred. I'm sure Damon will be fine. Giving him a reason to hate Brynden, whispers from the shadows because hey, you didn't hear it from me, and fuck it because I guess I really am an awful person. But brimstone and hellfire's already calling my name and if I go down then I'll make sure he fucking burns with me.

Guilt in my throat, a threatening chokehold from brothers in arms, Damon and Quentyn and Aegor, a song of the sweetest betrayal and I'm s o r r y.

~~But not enough to stop.~~

A cacophony of lies, itching for a fight with a broken bottle at four a.m because you're just like your father. Masquerading in front of broken mirrors, reflections distorted because no one's who they say they are anymore.

Trying to pick up the pieces but I cut my hands on the shards, it doesn't hurt anymore and it's because there's a theme here.

Welcome to the war.

⇀ tracker ↼
⇀ 2024 upat ↼

august vance d7b [Bella]
Career Tribute

599 POSTS

Pronouns: She/Her
last seen Nov 22, 2024 21:02:09 GMT -5

spacin out

bleeding spirits { ravensteel } phresh Nov 25, 2017 2:16:47 GMT -5

Post by august vance d7b [Bella] on Nov 25, 2017 2:16:47 GMT -5

softly as if I played piano in the dark
found a way to channel my anger now to embark
the world's a stage and everybody's got to play their part

He felt most alive in this room where he practiced to kill, arrows snapping a validating thwick against fiberglass torsos, in the heat of sweat and morning breath. The force that drives him has always been a primal one, old as mankind, the visceral pull in the stomach from the attack, or the escape. But now an arrow broke the plastic heart, and he could imagine real ones in its place, give them names: Aegor, Damon, Quentyn, Haegon, Aegon, Aemon. Brynden could picture their living bodies, hands clutching the arrow shaft at their chest, faces contorted in pain. He pictured them more often now.

Things are broken here, but more things are built.

He used to come here before the sunrise, before school started, a bow in his hands ever since he could draw the string. Climbing the rope ladders and running the perimeter of the building, growing taller and stronger and faster than anyone had ever imagined. He’d earned his respect here, without question—he could see it in the way the other trainees backed away from any station he approached, giving him space. Respect or fear, it didn’t matter. Either way they knew his name, and it wasn’t even the one his father had given him.

Aegor was there too, Brynden could tell where he'd be without looking; hacking off dummy limbs was his specialty, and he seemed to show up most mornings to do just that. It looked lazy and sloppy from where he was standing, but hey, maybe Bittersteel needed the practice, maybe he had to carve these up like turkeys to feel more comfortable with a sword in his hand. Compensating for something, judging from what Shiera had alluded to during one of their midnight trysts. And he trusted her, he would believe anything she whispered into his ear, so long as she kept whispering. There was a dull ache in his eye socket when he thought of her and the trade he had made, unknowingly, for half his sight.

And he swore it ached when Aegor was around.

Was Aegor was haunted too, did he stay up all night fearing Brynden’s revenge? It would be perfect if it was true, if he could make Bittersqueal squirm without laying a finger on him. Maybe it would be best then to wait, to let him go mad under the pressure--ravens don’t always do the killing, they can wait for death and claim their prize later.

But he was so much better at claiming than waiting. Right now, he and Aegor were alone; Bittersteel didn’t have his posse at hand to wipe his ass for him.

Shirtless, Brynden had been using the arrow to dig at his back, where the new tattoo had been itching all day, red around the black outlines. Now he nocked it, pulled it back, aimed, tongue between his teeth for good measure, let it go. Thwick, past Aegor’s ear, into the left eye of the armless dummy, sticking out the back of the plastic head like a kebab. An eye for an eye. He stretched out a vile grin, locking his hands behind his head. It was a new power he'd learned to savor; this ability to demand attention.

“Though I’d finish him off for you, you were taking long enough,” he called out, stepping towards Aegor, bow in hand. “Do you mean to cut off the outside parts first, or is it just bad aim?”

Claws at the ready, he was circling in.

Thanks for the table, calla <3

Last Edit: Nov 25, 2017 2:28:45 GMT -5 by august vance d7b [Bella]

(see? there's nothing to fear)

tick 12a / calla
RP Tutor

2,245 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Nov 21, 2024 23:14:10 GMT -5

just a litle creacher

bleeding spirits { ravensteel } phresh Dec 11, 2017 20:52:29 GMT -5

Post by tick 12a / calla on Dec 11, 2017 20:52:29 GMT -5

you rise and fall
back up against the wall
what goes around is
coming back and haunting you

Fire and brimstone - they're calling my name.

There are different ways to make a man hurt, so many more than just a simple death. Take his hope, his family, his lover- but not his life. It's too easy, too predictable. But tear him apart from the inside, his empire crumbling through his fingers like sand, and that's a worthy damnation. Never give him the easy way out.

Because maybe there is no retribution, no holy scriptures that will save us from fate's cruel whims. There's no return from the paths we've carved out for ourselves.

So leave him with his life, bleeding out on the sidewalk and he'll have more than enough time to worry away. A man's imagination can be deadlier than any mortal weapon.

But here, sometimes the option isn't available. Street fights and sparring sessions, it's kill or be killed. Keep up with the pack or fall behind and get trampled. Reputations are worth everything, the deciding factor between absolute loyalty and betrayal.

( If fear plays a role in it too, then so be it. )

In a split second, the haze of violence breaks, the air goes still and there 's a zip past my ear, ramrod spine shooting straight and what the shit -

An arrow lands in the eye of the training dummy, efficiently lodged in the left eye and its almost symbolic.

"Thought I'd finish him off for you, you were taking long enough," A voice floats languidly from behind, following the arrow trail, and it's grating. "Do you mean to cut off the outside parts first, or is it just bad aim?"

It's haughty and condescending and undoubtedly Brynden. I don't even have to turn to know. A phantom weight on my back, gnashing its teeth and making my skin crawl, there's no mistaking it.

If there is a hell, his voice will be the one that greets me.

I bite off a reply without turning, "You know, finishing him off isn't always the goal."

Fire and brimstone. We'll see each other there.

"You'd be surprised what a man will do to himself given time." He'll lie awake at night, poison dripping into his veins and something akin to murder shadowing his steps- "Sometimes, a quick death isn't enough."

Snapping the arrow off of the dummy and turning around, I idly twirl it between fingers. A transfer of energy, holding back demons that chomp at the bit to return his sorry sentiment. Crashing like tidal waves, the war-cry in my chest builds; sreaming for violence, for action against the deep root of my rage. The training centre is enticingly empty, eerie-feeling as any stragglers slink away to avoid the impending storm. Brynden stands before me, bare chested with his ever present bow, ink curling across his skin and shifting with his steps.

The picture of arrogance.

But it is the easiest emotion to flaunt, even while drowning in a river of red and choking on blind ambitions, it's the easiest way to force yourself onto the higher ground.

And it's the most dangerous drug to overdose on.

"Tell me, Bloodraven, since you already seem so well acquainted with losing things, would you have rather I aimed for your throat? Maybe you'd still have that eye, but I think losing it just improved your appearance, really. Mutilation suits you."

⇀ tracker ↼
⇀ 2024 upat ↼

august vance d7b [Bella]
Career Tribute

599 POSTS

Pronouns: She/Her
last seen Nov 22, 2024 21:02:09 GMT -5

spacin out

bleeding spirits { ravensteel } phresh Jan 2, 2018 20:43:02 GMT -5

Post by august vance d7b [Bella] on Jan 2, 2018 20:43:02 GMT -5

softly as if I played piano in the dark
found a way to channel my anger now to embark
the world's a stage and everybody's got to play their part

From the Darkfire ashes a raven was rising.

He believed in fate, that the things that had happened were meant to happen. No one could convince him that this wasn’t his destiny, to gain from the loss of the family that had ridiculed him all his life. The stars had aligned, opportunity had lit his path, and the bastards had it coming.

True, ancient memories had crossed his mind, from back before the gangs and grudges. Watching Bittersteel from across the floor, the smooth movements of his weapon, like an extension of his arm even in the beginning, when swords had been too heavy for most of them. That old admiration had made rejection all the more bitter, all of their sneers at his height, his long hair, his clumsiness with a heavy weapon.

And now, years later, he wanted nothing resembling kinship from Aegor and his pack.

A reply curled from Bittersteel’s lips. “You know, finishing him off isn’t always the goal.” Brynden smirked as Aegor spoke, turned nonchalantly away to examine another set of arrows, slightly longer than the one he’d just shot, turning one in his hand to judge its straightness. Before, he would have closed one eye as he did this, but Aegor had kindly made the task more convenient.

What a man will do to himself given time, his thoughts mocked. He had all the time in the world, and he’d already won what was most important.

"Tell me, Bloodraven, since you already seem so well acquainted with losing things, would you have rather I aimed for your throat? Maybe you'd still have that eye, but I think losing it just improved your appearance, really. Mutilation suits you."

Brynden breathed a hollow laugh at the compliment, nodding his head. ”Wanna match?” he wanted to ask, imagining what he could do with the arrow in his hand, but he was in control. He nocked it instead, pulling back the bowstring and aiming instead at a target dummy on the adjacent wall. Sheira entered his thoughts like a lit match, and he caught his thumb stroking the smooth bow handle at the thought of her skin, the air conditioning like her cool breath against his neck.

”We’ll see who’s lost more in the end,” Brynden grunted, loosing his arrow and striking the dummy in the neck. With an offhanded sort of reverence he laid his bow to rest on a bench. A treacherous smile crept over his lips. ”I hear you’re quite the singer. A real canary.” He turned toward Aegor, hands shoved into his pockets. “If that’s all you had to offer Shiera, well, I don’t blame her for moving onto... bigger things?”

He grinned and began to hum quietly at the ceiling, imitating the sample of the song he’d heard from Shiera. He had to admit it was catchy. In her voice, sugared and cold as ice, Aegor’s song had tugged at his heartstrings, legato and bittersweet.

Brynden laughed again, wondered: could he write a death march?

Thanks for the table, calla <3

Last Edit: Jan 2, 2018 21:56:07 GMT -5 by august vance d7b [Bella]

(see? there's nothing to fear)