#ic : visal
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♢* — OPEN : visal. ( genshin or normal verse )
〈 ♕ * 〉 ┊ "I can translate this language with adequate accuracy, yes, but--" he flicks his gaze up from the weather-worn page before pointedly glancing over towards a less crowded area, "--I suggest we go somewhere a little less stifling." He then gives pause, before adding in a lower, bemused tone, "And I expect an explanation on the sudden interest in contraband dead languages."
#* OPEN#ic : visal#* hi who wants to possibly get in deep shit by discovering ancient conspiracies and secrets w/ a disguised dying prince
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"Perimortem"
Chapter One: Lone Digger
Warnings: Extreme, detailed gore. Sibling abuse and, let's face it, extreme sibling disharmony. Death. Murder. Intrigue. Visceral horror, gaslighting and implied abuse.
Hi. Welcome to Chapter One. Do me a favor okay? Mind the content warnings, I'll try to do them comprehensively on every chapter. Mind the tags, if you want to find story posts easily, search 'Perimortem Story,' every post will have this tag. If you like my work please reblog I guess, I'd like people to read it. <3 Thank you.
>>>>>>.
"I need to know where you're at on the information regarding Exro N'Tone and his Mistress," Nisal said. Malla blinked, a few times, and then chuckled.
"His Mistress is the least interesting thing about him," she replied, waving her hand. A holomonitor shifted aside, allowing her to look her sister in the eye. Houndite physiology being as varied as it was, her sister had four arms, and was using all of them to interact with various screens, her synthetic eyes darting in various directions. Admittedly, Malla was used to it, but understood why people found watching her work freaky. She got one eye to stare at, and that was generous in and of itself.
"Spill," Nisal said, absently.
"Exro isn't just fucking Janna Onie, from BioUltra, the lady third down from the top, he's also bottoming for Iko Kalavan, the secretary to the ceo of his competitor. There's shit going on there, and people are definitely being pumped for intel and then some."
"Fascinating. Formulate a strategy for acquiring proof and necessary supplementary intelligence, and operate underneath the sheets, little sister. I do not need a repeat of Kango Fortali's home."
"First off, that op went shitways because your dog squad crawled their asses in there itching for a throw down, and also, apparently weren't trained in proper curse ward detection and penetration," Malla said, and she regretted it instantly, as the older, taller houdite froze, all four of her eyes staring in different directions. One by one, she closed her screens and lowered her thickly muscled arms, each eye snapping in order onto Malla's face.
Nisal did not like having her own inadequacies thrown in her face.
"S-Sister, apologies. I grew too bold, and spoke inappropriately," she said, bowing her head, tensing her shoulder muscles for what was about to rain down on her. Her sister had made a mistake, and shit had rolled down hill, and desperate to please the only person other than their father who remotely mattered to her…
She'd taken the heat.
Bringing it up again was just, shitty… she made her own damn choice. She'd chosen to take the heat. She'd…
It felt like she'd chosen. Did she choose?
"Yes, of course," Nisal said. "And you took the heat, for which I am grateful."
Malla looked up, blinking. Her sister was smiling at her. Coolant ran in her veins, freezing her heart in her chest, tightening it all until she couldn't breathe. There she sat, frozen, eyes like iced over, unfocused. All four of her arms were stilled, her hands trembling quietly in her lap. It felt as if she'd been poisoned, as if this was a trick, as if the room was too hot and too cold, all at once.
Nisal just smiled at her, and it looked… it looked right, it looked genuine. It looked like a person's smile. Her sister only smiled at her when she did things right, and only smiled like that when she did things REALLY right.
"Why is your heart beating nearly three times as fast as usual - the left one, I assume your primary, right now," Visal asked, or said, Malla wasn't even remotely sure. "You appear afraid. Are you afraid of me, little sister?"
Click, clack, that sound of a revolver's cylinder being shut. Slow pull, now.
In the silence of a loaded gun, Malla opened her mouth, tried to speak, and failed.
"Little sister?" Nisal asked, tilting her head, hellhound like ears twitching from vertical for a moment.
Click. End of the slow pull. The hammer was back. Finger on the trigger.
Wasn't it?
"I… yes, I… I meant nothing, I meant no disrespect, Nisal. I… I meant nothing by that, I meant, i meant only to reaffirm what I will do to ensure you are not bothered, Nisal," she said, rapidly, and slowly - pausing lots, and then managing words in short spurts.
"Naturally, little sister. If I believed anything else I would be terribly angry," she said, softly, without a hint of venom. "Now, go get your team together, and get to work planning out the op. We need this intel, as fast as possible.
"Y-Yes, Nisal, ma'am. I will do so," she said, rising, bowing at the waist. "I will do my best for you."
"Yes, of that I am sure," Nisal said, chuckling. "Go on, make me proud."
Malla rose from her bow and turned, walking one footstep at a time because if she didn't do it manually she was going to collapse to the floor and humiliate herself. In the short hallwaylet to the door, she resisted the urge to support herself on the wall, and then passed through the door and waited until she heard it automatically close behind her before turning, and walking calmly away. That was all she had to do.
She had to be in control. She had to be calm. She had to be perfect. Every movement was measured and she felt her freedom come in the absolute focus on that perfect motion, on walking with her four hands clasped behind her back, staring calmly down her muzzle at the curving hallway ahead of her.
She hated the Al'lal'lix Structure, and emerging onto the lowest viewing balcony gave her a single moment of relief in the fresh, cool air ruffling her fur before she headed to the allistor moor. As perfectly as possible, as utterly focused as she could look, Malla swung her leg over the seat, settled in, and activated the clamps that closed on her legs. She let herself lay forward, then, the seat softening significantly until she was near horizontal, staring forward into the primary drawscreen, all but snuggling the vehicle's interior.
Her optic nerve interrupt hardware kicked in and her eyes went dead, and then the view from the primary cameras came in nice and clear. She pulled away, piloting the deft craft without an ounce of drift, signal resistance, or anything else. She had to gather the team.
She had to get the plans done. It was her third day awake, and she was fine. She was absolutely fine.
To some sandpounder far below, the sight of Neon Glass from an aerial position might have been breath taking, the cavern a full six hundred miles at the widest, three hundred and fifty or so at the narrowest, eight miles in height. Lightlace like what 'held up' the infinite stone ceiling of Hell ran in veins through the great pillars left in place when the cavern was bored over two centuries, as the city grew in around it. It had stood finished for over a century.
Pyramids and rivers of glass and light and steel hung from above and grew from below, the innersky a choked place of endless jet transports, cargo craft and civilian vehicles, a constant flurry impossible to navigate without an AR hookup and a vehicle connection to the primary transportation network - or a fuckload of skill and even more magic.
She had a high priority connection and was glad to only provide subtle guidance and basic organic judgement tasks - watching out for surprise obstacles and other vehicles, primarily, in case of emergencies. At the speed she was going, no one was going to entirely trust the AI network.
She didn't fly into the glittering glass sky, but down to the floor, between canyons of light and advertisements, past billions of people she couldn't bother to care about, because she had a job. She had a job, and she was useful, and she was especially useful to people with significant power in the real way in the city. That made her better off than half the fucks she flitted past and-
That line of thought was terminated as soon as she realized it affected her heart rate. Nisal, she no doubt, had access to all of the biometrics and monitoring systems in the craft. Calm was absolutely required.
Perfection was the name of the game, as she flew down into the primary access tunnel for the sub-chamber below, where the industrial district found its horrible, annoying home. They were scheduled to be moved into a more fitting location soon, but at that time, she simply hadn't proven herself valuable enough have a place in the main chamber. Intelligence Operatives were a dime a dozen and she had to be a dollar a dozen more before she warranted a glittering glass office or anything else - at least.
That didn't matter. Her craft came to rest on the rooftop of the building, and almost before the shell opened, the roof structure closed over her and the vehicle, to conceal its presence - all formality, the entire district area they operated out of was largely automated systems. They were dodging the prying eyes of botwatchers and other freaks, not other operators.
Operators.
She still hadn't been approved to work field things, she had to run ops from the sand splashing fucking…
Inside. She walked, her boots clicking quietly on the stone tiles of the rooftop, her body weak, her legs trembling and then…
She was inside. In that space, she was king, and she made the rules. She placed the bugs. She controlled every single thing, including the small bathroom on the first floor that was a complete blindspot including having a natural reason to block biomonitor implant signals. In that bathroom, with the door shut and one of the floor's primary thaumic field regulators in the wall next to her humming softly, she vomited up everything she'd eaten that morning, and then followed it with letting out a wracking, horrible sob. There, broken and alone, she huddled in the corner beneath the sink and thanked the stars that Jackos had kept his word on making sure the damned bathroom was clean.
It wouldn't have mattered if the spiders were still there. She was losing her shit, and she had to get a grip, and get a grip fast. The moment she entered the building, everyone was called from their labs, or called back to the building from wherever they were nested up to do their research, planning and softsliding and…
She had minutes, a counter on her visual hud ticking marks as her team made their way into the main building, a floor below, greeted their analysts and assistants, their personal subteams… and headed up to see her. She choked and sobbed, cried and threw up a second time, and then set to work. It was critical that everything was perfect. Every drop of vomitus cleaned up, every tear washed carefully from her cheek fur.
Her people couldn't know she was weak, couldn't see her being so. Any team of operators was only as good as their controller - which was why she wanted to get into field work, but the idea of killing, it was…
She couldn't let them see her weak.
Standing in front of the mirror, she peered at her rich black fur, long and thick in the relatively cold, climate controlled cavern city. She carefully dabbed at the still damp patches of fur until they were dry. With her kit, she reapplied the fur stain that shaded the red around her eyes, and then took only a moment to re-oil her mane and brush it out. Satisfied, she turned and opened the door, hands clasped behind her back as she walked down the short access hallway and into the top floor operations center. Outside of that room, it was all hellcrete and industrial steel. Inside?
Inside was sanctuary.
Damnatium laced meta-panels covered every surface, some custom cut and molded to fit over the minimal machinery in the room - it had once been a board room, before automation made industrial jobs in the sky a lot less common. Behind her, a panel slid over the door, adding extra meta-panels to block signals that might slip through the cracks. It was a dead zone, cold and signal free, and she couldn't even cry in there.
Her team awaited, and she looked to Green, the freshfaced imp with a penchant for knifework and a body small enough for the cramped vents used in high security facilities.
"Green, do you have the floorplan for the related areas of the building? And an actual location where this tryst is happening?"
"Sure do," he said, gesturing to Koka, a huge taurosi woman who looked as concerned as Malla had ever seen a taurosi look - and Malla didn't show a thing in response to that concern, because the few times they'd slept together was purely recreation, and she couldn't afford letting anyone close to her. It was a dangerous position, existing as the youngest daughter of the Vix Patriarch, CEO of one of the most prestigious private security and intelligence gathering operations corporation in that section of the city.
It was a dangerous position if she fucked up. Anyone near her would go down so hard they'd hit the sand before they knew what was happening.
"Got 'em. Had to punch a few holes in a fellow, but he won't be talking," she murmured, discontentedly, as if something about the plans made her uncomfortable. Standing around the table, they waited as she slid the slickstick into the port. Their command table's holoprojector kicked on, and displayed a squat, five floor rectangle.
Malla raised an eyebrow.
"He's… fucking another CEO's… secretary… in a prefab industrial building?" she asked, slowly.
"The location comes straight from Nisal's personal penetration team, so, I guess so," Green said, but it was clear he too was somewhat unnerved. "Same model as ours. Standardization gone mad, I guess."
"I guess," Malla murmured, glancing to Xees, a succubus with at least enough hound in him to have a tail and ears. "Let's get on with this. Xees, what have you found out about the location?"
"So far, not much. Getting scans from the structure was impossible, that whole zone is high yield fucking bugged. I got coords, right? But the access tunnel was blocked off, locked down, one of those access-only-during-certain-hours sectors - dangerous high value manufacturing. I couldn't fuckin' get in, access is guarded when open.. I had to buy this off Kekel in the Whisper Market," he confessed, sighing, and he too stuck his slicky into a slot. The building's hologram exterior was peeled away, highlighting rooms in an identical layout, one they were all absolutely familiar with. Standardized buildings had been all the rage when the city was just being built and its industrial zones were bored out - they were fast, cheap, and made of nice and sturdy hellcrete.
There was still something surreal to plotting their entrypoints and planning an op on an identical structure to their own, but… at the same time, it wasn't as if they didn't know them well. What became bothersome was when Xees keyed up his data, providing them with thermal and thaumic scans of the building, arcanametrics profiles of the structure, and so on.
Their building hologram replicated itself into a total of three, which formed a pyramid that slowly rotated, showing the thermal, magical, and acoustic hotspots in the structure.
No one spoke. No one knew what to say. They all just stared, confused, knowing each other's habits and where their workspaces were, where the loud machines were, and they could see the building there were staring at was not merely a copy of theirs, not merely standardized…
It was theirs, down to the notes suggesting a command holotable on the top floor due to heat and acoustic data, and significant signal and thaumic shielding and…
"Boss," Xees said, good and slow. "What in the sand is this shit?"
"I don't know," Malla replied, that cold, frozen feeling returning, slowly. "I… I don't know. It looks, it appears… to be our building."
"It doesn't appear to be, it fucking is!" Green shouted, slamming her hand on the command table. "They're burning us."
"My sister is not burning us," Malla said, shakily. "S-She was pleased with me, she-"
"I do not have time for you to be psycho about your crazy asshole family," Green spat, pivoting and opening the cabinet where they stored the shotguns. "I'm sending an alert signal to the folks downstairs and our techs and shit, we all have to split. This is fu-"
Malla actually couldn't process things, for a few seconds. The huge taurosi woman stood there, arm extended, hand on the door - but a thick gray plate of something silvery-gray (enchanted bonesteel, Malla realized dimly) was just… also there, and then… it wasn't. The sound it made coming out was louder than the horrible THUCKSNAP of it punching into the building, this awful grinding noise that lasted less than a tenth of a second.
Green still stood there, just… unmoving, until her knees buckled and she went down hard, arms limp at her sides. When she fell sideways, the upper half of her head rolled wetly off, squirts of hot red blood still jutting from cleanly cut veins.
"GET DOWN!" Malla screamed - but Xees was already on the floor, crawling towards the corpse and then over it. He reached in, managed to snag the sidearms stored in the bottom, and rolled onto his back, head on Green's stomach as the blood from the eight foot tall woman's body spread slowly outward. Occasionally, her legs twitched. One of her arms shifted.
Her mouth opened, at least once, and then just stayed open. Malla didn't even notice the sidearm sliding towards her, she didn't hear Xees shouting at her…
Her eyes drifted left, to Koka, the only one in the room who had ever seen her cry, the only person in the entire world she felt like she could call a friend. Koka, a bullfaced taurosi, was typically less facially expressive than most, but…
But Malla had, had seen her face, learned her face. She dreamed of her, sometimes, half of the time they were nightmares at the end, where some fuckup got the Taurosi killed.
Koka was staring at her forearm, confused. Blood squirted in time with her heartbeat, because that forearm ended about an inch from the elbow.
The houndite heard her confused question, the last words she'd say, through the ringing of adrenaline and terror, and then it all went to white noise again.
"How come?" Koka asked, anything but innocent, but baffled and nearly childish with terror anyway - and then a three foot wide plane of metal slammed through her, just below her shoulders. Both blades, the lower one having cut halfway to her spine through her side and stayed there after severing her arm, retracted rapidly…
And Koka was gone. Just like that.
Just… gone.
All she heard was ringing. All she smelled was the growing stink of blood iron. All she…
She had never pulled the trigger on anything but paper targets, she'd never… she'd never seen someone die, not up close. Sure, her job had her eat her fill and then some of photographs of horrible or gory deaths. She'd seen videos of enhanced interrogation, but… she'd not watched any more of wetwork done on her orders than she had to, she…
"-SNAP THE FUCK OUT OF IT," Xees barked, in her face, on all fours in front of her - and she heard that THUNKSNAP, felt a whisper of air moving over her head. He went rigid, eyes wide. His right pupil dilated, blood trickling from the corner of his eye as that very orb wandered off to the side. Red splattered from his nose. His mouth fell open and hot red flooded out of it, splattering on the floor, speckling her face.
On all fours, he was sliced from ass to the tip of his nose, his head raised. The blade ended inches from Malla's face, a wide, flat chisel tip. His eyes widened at her, and then rolled back.
The lower half (including his belly, arms and legs) fell, and she stared silently at his severed insides, as the half-digested food in his split stomach burbling, running out into the tissues around it, his kidneys left above the plane of gray metal above her, and half his heart still throbbing, reacting to some latent impulse even though his brain was, as far as she could tell, largely gone.
The grinding came again, that horrible, loud, utterly rapid withdrawal, and his back and the top of his head splatted down onto what remained of the lower.
Malla was screaming, incoherently, crawling in terror to the corner of the room. She could taste him, all that was left of him, in her mouth - his blood, in her mouth. She threw up, again, curling into a ball and breaking completely, sobbing as the room was perforated over and over, as other agents were forced into the room and diced to pieces, or ran in shouting about incursion.
It was like being trapped in the corner of a blender, and something downstairs was forcing them up into the grinder, gunfire cracking and turning the horrible sound of this new blade weapon into a kind of underlying beat to a symphony of death.
The sound, very suddenly, stopped. Malla clutched her pistol, hands shaking so bad she couldn't have hit someone two feet in front of her - and then… the roof access hallway door opened, the panel sliding aside. Her sister stepped in, in plain black pants, a plain black shirt, and a standard company vest.
Malla tripped and stumbled over the corpses of people she had known, had worked with, for years. Past the carrion field, soaked in vital red and sticky with it, she barreled into her sister, wrapping her arms around the woman.
"N-Nisal… thank the Lucifer… we, I don't know, we were made. You, you got here just in time, I just… I-I don't know how… I don't-"
"Shhhh, little sister," Nisal said, drawing her sidearm. "You're annoying me."
Malla barely had the time to register those words before the pistol pressed to her unarmored stomach and pain filled in the gaps between horror and trauma with a BANG! She staggered back, confused, sick, and pressed her hands to her stomach. They came away even slicker, even redder, and in a panic, reacting on animal instinct, she frantically tried to cover the holes, before sinking to her knees.
"You're pathetic… utterly broken. Lacking rage, lacking hate, lacking malice. Weak insects have no place in this family, and as our father dies tonight, you fucking pathetic freak, I will have no further concerns to my name," she said, with such calm, such terrible satisfaction. She smiled that same loving, beautiful smile, but now it was… twisted - or was it the same? Malla felt twisted, writhing in agony on the floor, her life leaking out all the new holes in her torso. "Goodnight, little sister. Don't take it personally. You just weren't made for being in my life."
Malla tried to raise her arm, fire her pistol, do anything - but Nisal just stepped forward, ripped the pistol out of her hand, and returned to the wall beside the door, shutting it.
"No signals, no distress calls. I'm going to watch you die, little sister," she murmured.
Malla would take time… so much time…
Time to bleed out, time enough to roll away from Nisal, to stare out over the entirety of her life. A room full of corpses she'd been… friends?
Did she even have friends? It was a room full of corpses, and all of them died to save her, and she could only best describe them as colleagues. It dawned on her she didn't… know most of their lives, their families, anything about them. The less that intel operators knew about each other, the better.
The room was a monument to everything she was - the corpses of disconnected strangers, piled up at her feet for the crime of simply working with her.
"P-A-T-H-E-T-I-C," a soft, androgynous voice said, right in her ear. Nisal said nothing. Malla rolled, panting blood into her mouth, and found herself staring at a metallic face made up of tiny, mirrored tiles that floated strangely in the vague shape of a head. These tiny little tiles flooded in and out of a dark, strange robe… and in a hand made of steel that looked like an ancient mechanoprosthetic, it held a small pistol. This creature's face, the tiny mirrors of its 'skull,' were disorienting. They made it hard to think. Her eyes darted to its armament. "What, this? Look at this, instead of my face, idiot."
It brought the weapon close to her face, showing her the frame of glinting damnatium-steel, black and smooth, with an inlay of bonesteel. It opened the cylinder, and pulled a round free - it was copper jacketed, but with some odd kind of polymer-
It was not polymer. Frost coated the bullet in seconds, leaving only the oily, almost black tip untouched.
Nithilite.
A reaper.
"Bingo, fucknuts. I am The Thing You Can't Defeat of the Seven Deaths, and this is my friendly pistol, Charon," it said, chuckling, mirrors jittering with the sound. "Stare at the pistol, and think to me, or your asshole sister will hear."
Malla blinked, wondering if this was an actual reaper, or DMT.
"Fuck off, idiot, arachite don't get Deathdreams, you get Purgatorium Walks. If this was fake, you'd be in the woods already. See any fucking treeeeees?" it asked, sarcastically. She looked back to its face, and then back to the gun, wondering if it would use it. "Yes, I will, you dense bitch, if you don't want a chance to get revenge."
The dying houdite scoffed, wetly, choking on her own blood. Revenge?
She was pathetic.
"Yeah, you are, but you don't have to be. You can live… if you're willing to do something for me. There's this, thing, let's call it a disease… and a few people managed to exterminate it, a while back. It's funny, cause I sort of… liked it, it's a gift, you know? I'm a giver, like that," it said, its tone warm and slightly nasally, strangely accented though it was. "Drink their blood. Suck down the muck and shit and slime, kiddo. Drink it in, like a fuckin' FREAK!"
Malla stared at the gun, still, but furrowed her brow. It was getting kind of hard to see, or… maybe to process what she was seeing. Pain was… complicated, and whether she was in any, mysterious.
It told her to drink the slick liquid she laid in, her own blood, the blood of fallen friends, messes of organ fluids, digestive contents. It must've been fucking crazy.
"Rude, and unnecessary, and… I can go, if you want. Like, you can die, I'll just sorta do the spooky shadow thing, all that. You'll forget me, die… whatever. Or you can do me a favor, and become a monster. Do it, and do it quickly. Drink the deathmuck, spyling. Suck down the blood and death of all the horrible people that you barely know. Drink the blood of warriors who did your dirty work."
Why the fuck would she do that?
It swooped in close, and whispered in her ear, "because you've lived your whole live sucking fucking boot, and what happens next is going to change… everything. It will suck, oh yes, fucking MIGHTILY! But, you will get to live. From there, it's all up to you. Transmission of this, hm… disease, is not easy. I'm excited to see if you choose to pass it on."
Malla rolled over, struggling herself up onto all fours.
"Come on, do it. Do it, do it, do it. Drink this gross shit and take my gift, my infection. Drink it, you pathetic fucking idiot, you used little thing. Drink it, and for fuck's sake, be INTERESTING!" it shouted, laying on her, weighing almost nothing, a whisper - but she felt its face, near her ear, mirrors drifting through her mane. "Become something more than the tool these fucking FREAKS made you, or I'm going to shoot you in the fucking head and wash your memories out and shove you back into the coil all over again."
Koka's shoulders, neck and head had somehow, in the chaos, landed upright amid piles of meat that used to have faces and homes and habits and-
Koka's empty eyes stared at her, and Malla realized she didn't know a god damn thing about the woman beyond the sounds she made in bed and how efficient she was at her job.
She got low, drove herself down, and lapped at the blood and shit and death. It was like a fucking ocean, her former colleagues were diced so brutally, so completely. She swallowed it, choking on it, trying not to throw it back up.
"Atta girl… drink, drink, drinkity drink… suck down all that death. Do you taste the gift, yet? It can take some time to kick in. Come on… more, more, more!" The Thing You Can't Defeat howled, in her ringing ears, its voice immaculate and clear despite that she could hardly hear Nisal when she spoke.
"What are you doing you fucking loser?" her older sister demanded - and, frantic, Mala slurped down more. She choked less on every swallow, and the nausea dimmed until she lapped it up like a dog, like a beast, her muzzle caked in clots and gore. "You've really gone insane? Sands and fire, little sister, this is so embarrassing. You honestly do not even know. Dumping your body right into the pools? It'll be a fucking relief."
And then Nisal shot her in the back of the head - twice, to be sure.
#writing#fiction#science fiction#fantasy#cybernetics#spy stuff#intrigue#gore#violence#psychological horror#monsters#magic#story#creative writing#etc#Perimortem Story
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@phantasmaw asked: "Why is it that you keep following me? Is your sense of loyalty truly that strong?" Visal coos at the other, seemingly unbothered by the blade pointed at his throat. He speaks with a smile, the curl of his lips soft- inviting, even. But he's sure that his ex-bodyguard knows by now not to trust that invitation. Sadistic amusement flickers in his eyes, quickly chasing away the shadow of guilt that had started to build. "You won't kill me. So- why are you here? I thought you had responsibilities that outweighed vengeance."
Searing white-hot anger gripped his core like a vice. It makes his neck, all the way to the knuckles wrapped around his hilt, burn a dark shade of red. He could have cried at the betrayal, but all his tears were wept when he first found his lord dead in his study. Kenny remembers still, the way his eyes stung and his throat clamped shut when the court found him guilty of murdering the man he was supposed to protect. And even locked away behind magic infused bars were his cheeks still tearstained.
But now the only thing Kenny grieved was his own freedom. He can’t help but think how better it would have been if Visal really was dead, the dark looming thoughts slipping out of the cracks to blur his rationality. Kennith Delgado, once so good-natured and loyal to Visal, now harbored nothing but hate for the man. A hate so consuming it was all he could think about. It was infectious, obsessive, mind numbing- only the shadows in his ears helped him ground himself. He sought out Visal for a purpose besides gory revenge, and Kenny was determined to get his way.
“Shut the fuck up, you lying son of bitch.” Once, Kenny would have rather cut off his own tongue than speak to his lord in such a way. But that was before he was a wanted criminal, and that was before Visal had betrayed him in the worst way possible. Years spent together does not blind Kenny to the enjoyment held in Visal’s gaze. It infuriates him further, and Kenny presses the point of his blade a little harder against Visal’s neck. Hard enough to finally start drawing blood. “My family is being held prisoner because of you!” Kenny shouts, stepping forward. It’s hard minding the weapon in his hand, and the shadows whispering in his ears move to grab the blade, least Kenny really does stab Visal. “They’re going to die, because of you.”
The wool had been removed from over Kenny’s eyes, and he now saw Visal for who he truly was. A deceiver, a manipulator, a rat that will never stop taking till it leaves you with nothing. Kenny was disgusted with himself for not listening to the warnings the entities passed on each time he summoned them. He should have listened. “You’re going to save them, or I’ll drag you to your miserable afterlife myself.”
#phantasmaw#✘IC; kenny#✘asks#visal tbt;#oooo he angy#I FORGOT MOST OF WHAT WE PLOTTED OUT FOR THEM LSKJDHF#so i hope this#MAKES SENSE FOR THE PLOT..
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Intermédiaire en opérations de banque et en services de paiement spécialisés en crédit immobilier l’orias peut en effet émettre et recevoir des notifications d’exercice de l’intermédiation via la libre prestation.
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De contrôle des opérations d’assurance il faut remplir des conditions qui sont vérifiées annuellement par l’orias préalablement à l’immatriculation de l’intermédiaire l’orias est.
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La commission d’immatriculation cette dernière valide refuse ou ajourne l’immatriculation l’orias effectue l’immatriculation et l’inscription dans un délai de 1 000 € pour les.
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Nous vous accompagnons dans toutes les applications mobiles smartphones et tablettes dédiées sur ios et android digitalstand n°1b lok-iz la 1ère plateforme d’enchères immobilières interactives progressives et degressives gérez le.
Liste Orias De la liste des agences participantes et notice d'information du contrat d'assurance sur garantie après-vente laforêt comme eux faites-nous confiance avec laforêt...
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♢* — @crimsontroupe / 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 & 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬
❝ they stole my voice. this is me taking it back. ❞ - nox and vis!
〈♕ *〉┊ How does one steal a voice?
A foolish question to ask, and so it does not leave his lips. The answer comes to him when he glances up at the man's severe face. The prince subsequently looks back down at the dusty manuscript lain before him. Those in power pluck at whatever strings they can wind 'round their fingers: politics, social issues, historical accuracy, economics, religion, and so on. What would stop them from treating the vocal cords of the masses, much less a singular being, the very same way? It begs the question of how many scripts he has overwritten in his time as the veiled emporer. Little more than parts and pieces bound by arcane duty, he talks with a thousand stolen words and thousands more to come. A little laugh huffs from his nose. Yes-- he does already know the answer.
"And if it gets taken again?" He draws a deliberate, thick slash through a faded line of text. The coy smile attempting to turn his lips upward loses its strength, letting the corners of his lips quirk down into their natural state of musing. Another line, this one through nearly an entire paragraph. "...I can help. Potentially. Nothing extra required in return; I don't believe we could give each other anything we might need directly." He coughs then. His lungs cinch, ablaze with the need to expel all the oxygen from his system, bones audibly creaking beneath skin. Phantom fingers press at the soft dip at the base of his throat, warning him not to even entertain the idea of fraternizing with a foreign power's disposed pet project. It's almost funny. Very, very funny.
"Food for thought; no need to answer. At the very least, we can hope whoever you want to speak to would hear you." Oh, but probably not. The thrones of the powerful were empty more often than not. If prayers went unanswered, why would the hollering of a hit dog gain an audience?
#crimsontroupe#ic : visal#〈♕*〉visal ╲ INBOX#〈♢*〉drying ink ╲ ANSWERED#* ty soma!!! it's always fun writing something for these two :3#* vis's very long winded way of saying dont get ur hopes up m8 i don't think anyone worth yelling at is listening
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♢* — @natterghast / 𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐀𝐑: 𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒
❝ you feel it in the air, don’t you? the anxiety. ❞ (from solar for vis <;3)
〈 ♕ * 〉 ┊ "I believe-- I am feeling--- quite a bit more than-- anxiety," Visal wheezes out in response.
Doubled over and visibly quaking from head to toe, the prince clutches a heavy tome to his chest as though its bulk could squeeze more air into his heaving lungs. After a few more arduous gasps, he manages to straighten up. The hood of his traveler's cloak drops from the curves of onyx horns framing either side of his head, revealing how the deep brown of his skin runs ashen beneath the pale glare of the setting sun. He winces against the harsh light before glancing back down the craggy slope. Where a great library once stood is now little more than ancient debris. The ward formerly obscuring it as nothing more than a tangle of roots from long-since felled trees flickers uselessly. With nothing to conceal anymore, the magic from the ward seeps out into the air. Its essence batters against his already hypersensitive body. Were he alone, he's certain he would have collapsed by now.
'No; I would have fallen back in the library were I the sole enactor of this fool's errand,' he acknowledges with a troubled furrow in his brows. From beneath sweat-soaked bangs, he shoots a searching look towards his unlikely companion. The magic sustaining the library had been old and wily, like a serpent connivingly coiling around its prey. Every ward and stronghold broken had sapped away more and more of his already minimal energy. He had come dangerously close to needing to burn through the reserves flowing through his veins as blood-- and that, he knows, would likely have brought the entire building down onto their heads. Yet, blessedly (and quite curiously), it hadn't come to that. For whatever reason, the other's very presence had seemed to sustain him right at ground state. Odd... and entirely untrustworthy.
"We don't have much time," he warns, packing that observation away in the back of his mind for now. He unceremoniously shoves the tome into the patchwork satchel hanging from his shoulder (a traveling doctor's bag, he had called it earlier). "With all those wards destroyed, whatever beings left behind to guard the secrets stored here are surely waking." He takes a box from his bag, removes something shimmering in the shape of a six-pointed star from it, pops it into his mouth, and swallows with a grimace. "All hells below know what time and decay might have twisted them into. Better to run than--"
The ground rumbles and groans underfoot. Birds burst from the treetops, cawing frantic warnings as they fly away. Not even a second later, the steeple of the ruined entryway splits in half. A tentacle textured like the false image of the gnarled roots lurches upward, blotting out the sun and casting a shadow across both individuals. A seam on its underside tears open into ghastly rows of teeth that chew and gnash against each other. Oily spittle oozes from the crags of incisors, bubbling and hissing as they splatter against the ground only a short sprint's length away from Visal's feet. Emaciated arms break out of the miasma, the oily surface bursting open like an embryonic sack, dragging twisted bodies with the same hungry maws splitting across their limbs. He vaguely recognizes the once-lustrous, now rusted and charred, armor clinging to the skeletal soldiers. Legion of the Abandoned Apocrypha. Doomed servants of all dead and forgotten religions, laid to rest to guard the scriptures of their dearly departed gods and oracles.
How unfortunate that he'd had to reclaim one of his own peoples' sacred texts from this forsaken mausoleum.
"--fight," Visal finishes on a weary sigh. He resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and swear. "Go," he urges, uncompromising but not unkind. "This is not your battle, stranger."
#natterghast#ic : visal#〈♕*〉visal ╲ INBOX#〈♢*〉drying ink ╲ ANSWERED#* SOLAR IS SUCH A COOL CHARACTER MAN I'M EXCITEDDDD#* vis n them can shake hands on weird magic test tube/homunculus baby#* i cooked up this idea these two happened on each other by chance in some ruins and sorta just stuck together-#* -since it would've been an extremely dangerous and unstable area despite it looking normal(ish)#* WEEEEE MAGIC FUCKERY#* also vis probably is NOT seeing what solar actually looks like; he is uhh#* functionally insane. LSDFJ and high concentrations of magic always look like#* one of another oc of mine's dead siblings to him (except he doesn't know who they are)#* so! yeah! ASDLFKJ
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♢* @chaoscrawls / 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝
〈 ♕ * 〉 ┊ The name rings in Visal’s ears like a dozen tolling church bells. It swells before waning into a distant peal, all but disappearing into staunch silence. He keeps his head bowed towards the page as if he is a service attendee beneath that tolling bell. Nyarlathotep. The pronunciation is difficult, but comprehensible. It’s how the name lingers, demanding more focus than he has no more to offer, that he has trouble with. As he mentally repeats each syllable in attempt to familiarize himself with it, the printed words begin to wriggle about on the page. He blinks. They continue to wriggle. He blinks again, takes in a sharp breath, and closes his eyes. One. Two. Three. When he opens his eyes again, the words stand in tidy straight lines once more. Pressing his lips together, the prince sighs through his nose.
“Visal,” he offers cordially, gaze still fixed upon the aged pages beneath this fingertips. His brows furrow ever so slightly as he notices splotches of milky light illuminating the text. A furtive glance from beneath his lashes confirms his suspicion that the eerie dappling is cast by the creature’s myriad eyes. Interesting.
A gloved finger languidly traces beneath one line of text to the next, though not a single word makes it through the thick fog rolling in across the prince’s mind. Only his immediate attention manages to pierce through the murky haze, and its beam is directed towards the imposing presence casually peering over his shoulder. His finger comes to a halt at the end of a paragraph whose details he can’t even vaguely recall.
“Is the reading to your liking?” he asks, keeping his voice low, as though worried somebody else may hear him. The hand cradling the large tome flips the front cover over: The Advanced Apothecary Chemist’s Guide to Toxic Mixology. An irritated frown tugs at the corners of his lips. Oh. He had actually wanted to glean some information from this. What an inopportune time for him to decide to entertain his own delusions.
He finally looks up at the looming figure, those golden eyes glinting with muted curiosity. “Or are you only tolerating my, admittedly, dry literary taste?”
#chaoscrawls#ic : visal#〈♕*〉visal ╲ THREADS#* I'M SO SORRY IT TOOK ME A SECOND TO GET THIS FINISHED!#* just a fella talking to his not-hallucination... nothin to see here...
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♢* — @madamhatter / 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬
❛ what do you think ? ❜ / visal!
〈 ♕ *〉 ┊ “I’m afraid at this point I would rather not think at all,” he replies in a light chuckle, though the growing shadows beneath golden eyes betray his weariness.
Hours have passed since he first began perusing the guild’s library, with the sun having long since set and giving way to gentle rain pattering against the windowpane. Tomes and scrolls alike have passed through his hands, pages and passages studied with utmost care as shadows had stretched along the walls. An abundance of new knowledge on spells and charms and hexes now rests snugly beside his previous expertise on the subjects. Yet he still hasn’t found what he seeks. And with the oil burning low and words now bleeding together on the page, he has to admit to himself he’s not likely to find it here.
With a tired sigh, Visal closes the heavy cover of the grimoire splayed out on the table with a quiet thud. His fingers steeple in front of pursed lips, and for a moment he allows his eyes to close. He wouldn’t like to think that he has wasted his time here. Awareness of this particular area’s magic and alchemical practices will likely serve him well in the coming weeks, and he’s grateful for that. If there’s anything more dangerous than being a stranger in a foreign land, it’s being an ignorant stranger in a foreign land, or so he’s found. While the people he’s mingled with here have proven to be far from outwardly conniving or ill-willed, he’s not foolish enough to trick himself into thinking it will stay that way. He barely knows anything about this land: its history, its customs, its socio-political status…. Anything that might give him a better grasp on his current dilemma. Simply asking would be an easy fix. He knows that. And he’s rather tempted to right now. His companion hardly seems the type to mock him for his lack of knowledge, nor does he think she would find it too suspicious, either. His tattered traveler’s coat, empty pockets, and unplaceable accent must make it obvious enough that he’s not from here. Even so, she had been kind enough to allow his request to look through the guild’s collection for any records of a spell he urgently needs. He truly has no reason to distrust her.
Still, he refuses. There are prying eyes and listening ears everywhere– he’s learned that the hard way. Moreover, his eyelids have started to droop and his feeble body aches all over. It won’t be long before the glamor obscuring multiple horns, a tail, and cat-like paws where feet should be begins to waver. Using up what’s left of his energy just for a chat would leave him both unable to conceal himself properly and unable to keep his wits entirely about him. So he pushes his chair back and stands with all the grace of a drowsy cat.
“I must thank you again for the hospitality you’ve shown this wayward stranger,” he says with a bow of the head, “You and your guild’s generosity won’t go unappreciated or unpaid.” That’s where he should leave it: concise words of gratitude and proper tidying up after himself, perhaps even a little murmured spell for good fortune as an immediate deposit for his promise of recompense. But as he readies to dowse the lamp, he hesitates. The warmth in her rich brown irises peels back a little more of the layered caution swaddling the prince’s sensibilities.
“...Truth be told, I might need to consult a seasoned mage to find the answer I’m looking for.” The words tumble like free-flowing water from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking again. He does nothing to staunch them, even as his own stomach flips with how much of his own secrets he’s willingly spilling– even if she has no idea that they are secrets at all. “I’ve already asked you more than enough, but– you haven’t happened to hear of any spells that could call down a star, have you?”
#madamhatter#ic : visal#〈♕*〉visal ╲ INBOX#〈♢*〉drying ink ╲ ANSWERED#* and here's your other ask!#* went with sophie's fantasy verse where she's a guild member that keeps her magic on the low down#* pls don't be fooled by how well spoken he is he's like 3 steps from being downright mad SKJFFNDS#* WHO JUST ASKS A STRANGER ABOUT SPELLS FOR BRINGING STARS DOWN VIS.... UR SLIPPING BUDDY!
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