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Mo chara cleiteacha, Táim ag feitheamh le tú.

1725, Slum Rat: Please.
1725, Slum Rat: You need to boot me off of your discord servers.
1725, Slum Rat: Elle, I hope you still check in here from time to time. It's THM. The Shanecat. My discord account got hacked. I don't know if I can get it back.
b452, +Miss Elle: Is this my password?
2bff, +Serianca: I'm off to bed. Good night lovely. }
2bff, +Serianca: sighs Discord went down for me. }
b452, +Miss Elle: Eeps even.
b452, +Miss Elle: -Eros and snugs-
      Serianca catches.
b452, +Miss Elle: Creeps
MSG: Serianca sent a message to Raven.
2bff, +Serianca: One could take the bird from the sky, but it couldn’t necessarily ever find itself removed from the body it inhabited. Whether on a wing aloft in the currents of air cocooning the world or on foot, anchored to the ground, it remained at heart what it was always meant to be. A creature of unusual origins given new life. Despite all the crafty abilities in its possession these days, they were ignored for the same ultimate goal it originally proclaimed once it was released from the jess that bound it to a painfully short life. It obsessed over one thing. One person. The owner of those cylindrical white trophies. It didn’t help in the slightest the individual it cruised after on wing and foot was known to it by one name and one name only. Ni Ni. Perculiar how at the very beginning of it all, there were two such individuals by that name. How the one warned of his sister perhaps expecting a favor, yet nothing of the sort happened. In what felt an all too abrupt moment, both were gone. No sign. No trace. Nothing. It was an elusive search for something intangible. And bugger it all, the birdbrain continued on. Nothing much occupied its fancy save the relentless pursuit of the familiarity it once sought the company of. Once entertained the company of. Once… what? What precisely drove it to reunite with the one entity it crooned for?

With a faint exhale drawn out between thinned lips, she managed a controlled, albeit frustrated, sigh. A brief touch of color adorned them, though it was near impossible to imagine if it was left over blood from a previous kill she consumed or from the almost habitual way she bit them while lost in thought. She often shuffled around the District with careless abandon. Life often found a way to settle in wherever she remained for too long and not all the inhabitants cared for such things. Her presence brought… change. Something enticing at times, but also frightening at others. Her home at the lofty heights located within the District continued to grow in spurts at her reappearance. It bloomed with fresh growth whenever she stayed for a seven day jaunt, then withered if she left for longer than a moon. The aviary she resided in as home, littered with sun bleached bones of rival birds attempting to claim what was not theirs in her absence, continued to flourish with the green touch of life.

As for the rest of the District… it returned as it had been when they all abandoned her. It became the home of those denizens whom resided there during Elle’s protection. Yet, the District never went without some watchful presence lingering in the dark.

8f5c, Slum Rat: I have been learning how to find your spirit and give it form. That is what I've been working upon since I left the district. I learned that your spirit was walking the District in some way. So I set about finding how I could communicate with it. Then I studied this art.. the art of death. Of giving life to dead things. And here we are.
b452, +Miss Elle: (Lurker lurker! Come out!)
b452, +Miss Elle: Easing her back to the bedroom of the tiny space they inhabited, Elle would grip his arm with surprising strength. Realizing her slip, she would pull herself against him as best she could. “I’m not tired. Funny enough.” The thought was comedic. She spent her life chasing sleep so to hear her say such things would not be lost on him. “Talk to me, Mo Sciath. Where have you been? I used to watch you. Well, I suppose you could say I knew what you were doing before you left...” Her voice had a fever to it, begging him to stay with her and not pawn her off to sleep. Talking about the coincidence may have been dangerous. It was evident that some odd grievance was occurring between the two, most obvious by the numerous and lethally placed bullet wounds she spied on Conner. Was he wondering where she went? She hoped desperately he had left her room.
8f5c, Slum Rat: *There was a stiffness, the slightest betrayl of himself that didn't reach his features not that her maladjusted oculary faculties would have seen the change in expression were his neutral features to make such a notable shift. No indeed his features were a carefully pronounced thing. Emotionless and flat as the voice with which he spoke. Almost a machine in manner, when he had worn his mask one might have been forgiven for thinking he was such with its metallic echo. Though there nights of physicality would lay any such question of flesh and blood to rest. He didn't speak though instead he gently pressed her towards the bedroom. When his words did reach her they were cool and softly spoken.+ You should try sleeping. Your spirit my drift away from the body if you aren't careful.
b452, +Miss Elle: With legs like a foal, the appendages shook. Beneath her weight she was unable to truly support herself just yet. Another self deprecating laugh would lift loose from a slender freckles throat. “I can’t see a damn thing, can’t stand... this is quite the conundrum” her voice held a spunk he likely hadn’t heard in a long time. And before she could think, she spoke again. “It’s odd that both of you find me in the same day...” Moreso thinking aloud. Her hand rested on his shoulder as her body stood there, attempting to gain her bearings.
8f5c, Slum Rat: +He would shift to let her legs down, moving to hold her by the waist rather than the rump. Though she was still a shorter slender body, perhaps not as short as she had once been but still several heads shorter than the assassin who stood at her side, supporting her weight rather readily with a single arm on her waist and her hold on his shoulder.+
b452, +Miss Elle: (Out*)
b452, +Miss Elle: (-Lures our the third with donuts.-)
b452, +Miss Elle: A sick chuckle would escape the pale lips she now owned. Of course he left no positive way out of this. If the woman had to loose her life, she might as well put the body to use. Another deeper emotion of self loathing would crawl over her skin like spiders. However, she chose to ignore it. Damn, she had made peace with never seeing either of them again. And now she was presented with both Conner and Caleb. Her stomach turned however she realized it was merely her emotions. “I should have expected this, I guess. “ She made an effort to escape his hold. Sometimes she relied too deeply on him, which made her torturous feelings of love for the man even more grave. “Help me stand.” She requested, her hand finding his shoulder with some strength.
8f5c, Slum Rat: I am your tool. Your death does not change my place. I am ever at your side. If you do not wish to remain in this body, I can procure a new one. Or should you seek the rest of peace as a spirit. I can offer you the bliss of death. But I will follow you wherever you wish to travel. *The cold press of a silenced barrel would find the temple of the corpse she called her home. He didn't offer to bring the woman back from her demise. While the corpse was still viable, thanks to the method of how he chose to take her life and the inhabitants of the spirit that would offer to preserve it for the time. That touch of cool metal would leave her temple a moment later.+ You are mine and I am yours. Life or death. My place is with you. Forgive my impudence in bringing you to my side instead of my finding a way to yours.
b452, +Miss Elle: At this point, she wasn’t concerned that he had killed. However she did question his target. Despite having a rather big ego, in death, the tiny woman had little to do and much to think over. She found herself questioning the value of her life, and the imprint she had left on those she knew. Her face twisted into a frown as she closed her eyes and rested her forehead against a well toned shoulder. “I don’t think this was a good idea, Caleb.” In the past, there were few instances where she had ever shown him weakness. And to be honest, he had been the only one to see her moments of human regret, sadness, and depression. She knew he had no ability to judge or care about such trivial things, so it was always easy to bare her heart to him. “So why...” Came her final question. That was honestly all she cared to truly know. Whether he would answer of not was moot. It would be something she would never stop questioning within herself.
8f5c, Slum Rat: +He brushes a hand across her forehead, lightly brushing the red strands away from her face in a gentle touch. His mouth touches her forehead where his finger touched a moment previous.+ I am ever your servant. In life and in death. I will be your shield even against the gods themselves. We can rest here until you gain your bearings... though I would not suggest remaining here longer than is necessary. While I have watched her long enough to know her family won't be concerned about her health, she has a few friends and a job that might look in on her. It would be difficult to deal with such inquiries for you.
b452, +Miss Elle: (Whoops. Hit italics I guess...)
b452, +Miss Elle: The floor left her as space quickly formed beneath her. A broad arm beneath both her head and rear felt eerily familiar. Lashes fluttered open and those emerald eyes rested on the face of the one who carried her. Her eyes still struggled to focus. The woman was unaware of the glasses that fell in the struggle and had been cast aside. When his voice came, her whole body shuddered. It was as if the very words spoken possessed her. “C-Caleb? What... where are we?” She had so many questions, however the surprise had left her mind blank. Struggling to operate her hand, she reached up and attempted to touch his face. Miss Elle squinted and frowned. Everything was so blurry it was hard to discern his features even this closely. This only succeeded in her knuckles bumping his cheek in an awkward yet painless jab. “Fuck... why is this so hard?” The question was not meant to be answered, moreso to complain of her predicament. His warmth seemed so much hotter than her own, it was then she noticed that there was no feeling of a beating heart. There was the rise and fall of her chest, however it wasn’t as though it was necessary. Just some odd by product of muscle memory. “Did you do this? Why?” There came the questions, her body feeling heavy yet the gravity of the situation bearing much more weight.
8f5c, Slum Rat: +He didn't speak as he watched her shift and shamble in the new flesh her spirit occupied, not until she sprawled awkwardly onto her back with her arms open. At that point, a pair of arms slid under her rump and neck, lifting her into a cradle the one might a small child. He lifts her to tug her body into the nook of his chest.+ It will take a moment to regain your senses. It is hard to inhabit a body that is not your own. None of the subconscious mechanics that you used to possess. You'll need to consciously focus on how your limbs are supposed to move. You'll get accustomed enough to it that eventually you won't have to actively think of it, just like before. +The voice was flat. Familiar in its monotonous nature. The voice that usually possessed aslightly mechanical brush. The naked chest that she rested on. Warm to her own slightly temperate flesh. Not quite cold yet not quite the temperature of a human body. More room temperature.+
b452, +Miss Elle: Within moments as simple as if a phone call, whispers would surround her senses. They were quick, panicked sounds. However hushed and hurried. Like anxiety, they built up and bubbled over. These voices called to her, and some screamed in an agony that made her believe she was unsafe. Reaching out reflexively, Miss Elle attempted to grab Conchobar’s arm. Her eyes were wide in sudden horror. That petite hand would slip right through his bicep and the misty image of the woman he loved began to sweep away on the breeze. As if being pulled into a vortex. The draw was strong and violent, and even though she tried, it was as though surrender was the only option. When she had, it was like sweet release. All went black. No sensation. The very sleep she had been praying for this entire time. Her image of a soul, gone.

Something beneath her was hard. A weight encompassed her awareness like never before. Behind red eyelids two emerald irises would dart back and forth, as if the body forgot to flutter open eyelids. Long muscle fibers began to retract, moving limbs as if filled with concrete. The smell of shampoo was obvious, and once those eyes opened, the firey locks that lay across the foreign face were the owner of that scent.

Two hands planted themselves on the ground in deft attempt to raise up the body. Was this hers? She felt dizzied, unable to comprehend exactly where she was and what experience she found herself in. This was much different than possession. For the spirit could never truly feel what the body did. It was merely driving an occupied vessel. She currently felt everything, and all of it itched.

Vision focusing, a tall blurry figure stood over her, the only attempt she could make was to roll over onto her back and spread her arms on either side of herself. This body, she slowly realized was indeed hers. Fingers flexed slowly, her chest rose and fell with breath. This odd sensation far too much for her to handle. Before she could even recognize the man above her, those emerald irises shut from view again.

“What the hell is this?” The body was different, but the voice was not. That whiskey sour Irish accent, full of spunk slipped past the plump lips she now owned.

8f5c, Slum Rat: +Life was a tapestry of moments. A symphony of scenes cut together that stand out particularly vividly in the psyche to create a somewhat altered and augmented reality of what was by what we perceive to be. It has been found that memory is unreliable, often altered by factors outside of the experience. Some people believe so ardently in the truth and reality of their memory that they believe that any variation from what they recall is evidence that they are living in a reality that is not their own, which some might call ironically true if reality can be defined by what we perceive to be real. The memories of Caleb Sciath were long. Many were painful. Many were scars he carried deeper then his flesh could cover. Parents. Wicked cruel creatures who both were as destructive and abusive as the other. His father was a violent, volatile fury who lashed out like a beast and was put down like one in time by his own son. His mother was crueler still in both her emotions and her deeds. An age of torments that would have broken the hearts and minds of a frailer child.

Caleb had never known love as a child. He had learned violence and torture, the cruelty of the heart, and how to evoke pain in prey. As a teenager, he took the life of his mother and abandoned his home for service. He was trained in combat, trained how to fight. Trained in the art of killing and it was very much an art. There was a beauty to combat. A beauty to the taking of life. It wasn't an arousing kind of desire as much as an elegance to the act. His murder of his father and mother had not been beautiful. They had been cruel and he had been vicious. Little more then a wounded animal lashing out as volatiley as his father often did. Caleb wouldn't say he desired to kill, but he was proficient in it and he had no qualms in taking life. So he did. As a young man, Caleb met Miss Elle. They saved each other's life. Caleb could not say he loved her. He could not say that he felt anything truly for her at all. He enjoyed her company. And he was loyal without waver. He served her as a killer and a lover. And he could not say he was happy to do so. She was his Mistress. That was all that mattered.

She died. He was not present, handling her affairs elsewhere as he often did. She was in Conchobar's care. He had never been able to say if he was happy to be with Elle. But he knew that he was not happy to find her gone. Conchobar had failed to keep her safe in his absence. He had killed him, though the man did not stay dead. He knew he would not. He never did. But that was not the story. Caleb killed. He killed without relent or remorse. He killed because living or dead, Elle was his Mistress. He killed because this was still her world. And he would preserve it in the blood of all who would lay claim here.

So why had he left? What had pulled him from the District? To leave Elle's home to the wolves who scavenged for crumbs of what she built?

His name was Cade. Cade Evers. And he was a necromancer. A mystic who could speak to spirits. Who could grant them form with enough talent and bring the dead to life. A talent that his dead mistress could use. So he went with the man to learn his arts. Two years later and Caleb stands in a small apartment with a young woman. She is milk pale of skin and crimson of hair with a body that is slender in build and frame. Her hands are on his chest, nails digging at flesh that lies below the fabric of his shirt. Her pale lips are parted in a silent cry.

Ten seconds. That is the length of time it takes for a brain, deprived of bloodflow through the pinching of the carotid artery. Her parted lips can't scream. Her tangled fingers can't free her. She barely has a moment to register the movement before her consciousness falls away. He supports her weight without much effort and without releasing the pressure on her neck. His hand folds over her mouth, creating a solid cup that would steal her breath. In another minute she is lifeless with him having not had to damage her body. Still warm to the touch.

The call. The cry to her soul. The spirit of Miss Elle. The haunting sprite of her hallowed halls. It's a tug. A vicious violent thing. A screaming wriggling thing in the pit of the gut. Pulling at her spirit like the current of a river threatening to sweep her away in an instant should she let herself be pulled along it. Of course resistance was a thing that could be offered. Though if she chose to throw herself into the current, in one moment she would be ripped out of her haunt and find herself in the flesh. It wasn't too unlike posession. Though the limbs would be harder at first to navigate. More like a baby learning to walk. Though practice would offer some comfort in familiarity of motion. Though she would find herself sprawled on the floor loosely in a jagged heap. He hadn't been particularly gentle or rough with the corpse once he set to make the call to her spirit.+

b452, +Miss Elle: Indelible, permanent. Just as permanent the mark of death on her own life. The reason she lingered here out of absolute selfishness on behalf of Ayden. He had entirely disappeared, forgetting her among the brickwork and dust lined corridors. At one time this place held so much life, that even if there was a ghost, the soul would be occupied just watching the lives of the inhabitants play out. Now she was alone, yet here was Conner. As he sat up, she watched his tall form unfold. She slowly slid across the floor until she was inches from him once more. Looking up
Into his face, she would see the reserve he held. He would not go anywhere, that was clear now. She allowed a curt laugh to leave her lips. “Once- long ago you were filled with dread at the thought of being inside these walls. And now, like a dog with a collar you keep coming back.” The words may have had a harsh connotation, however the very fact was true. The wolf had been tamed, even if just under one hand. “If you really have it set within your mind to stay, I will keep you company. Even if I am not enough to touch.”Perhaps that witch would return, maybe then she would be able to show him some fleshly comfort.

8f5c, Slum Rat: Caleb swore to protect you. I imagine in life or in death, he views you as his mistress... +Speaking absently the words would come but the voice would trail absently away as he would sigh and rise from the bed. His hands brushed through his locks, shorter now then they had once been.+ I could not abandon you. Easier on my world or not. You left an indelible mark on my heart
b452, +Miss Elle: (45 minutes to my destination. -Sighs and flops at his feet.)
8f5c, Slum Rat: (Boo)
b452, +Miss Elle: The thought of them fighting valiantly to preserve her name would have brought tears to her eyes if she could cry. However, her eyes slowly moved to his face where she allowed herself to soak in the memory of his features. There were new injuries, allstacking upon the old to make a unit of scarred tissue like a sewn together tapestry. Biting her lip, she would make a fist, her image trembling. “It was neither of your faults. And you nor Caleb should have taken this upon yourself. It was your chance to be free.” Her Irish lilt was the same it had always been. A melody sweet like honey and bread. Spying the mask next to the face she was fond of, her gut wrenched. She missed them both, and even if Conner could never die, this was not the life she wanted for him.
8f5c, Slum Rat: *His hands rose and pulled free his mask, revealing the face beneath. The tatter of the bullet wound that circled his temple now visible as he turned his gaze up to the damaged ceiling. He laid the mask upon the pillow where her head had made the facade of resting not long prior.* Sciath blamed me for your death. I should have been there. Should have braved the flames to find you. I am.. after all.. immortal. He blamed your enemies as well. He killed them. One by one. Anyone who spoke ill of you. Anyone who dared to try and take what was yours. He was relentless in his pursuits. Fearless or reckless. I could not say. They called him a grim reaper. The reaper in the gas mask. He was a myth. But myths die. And the rumor of the vengeful reaper has worn thin. The gangs aren't being killed who enter here. They've lost their fear. I do not know where Caleb resides. I do not know why he abandoned this mask. Why he abandoned what he fought so hard to protect. But if Caleb is not here to be the reaper.. I will. I will forge the legend once more. It is the least I can do since I was unable to recover your bones.
b452, +Miss Elle: (Double post ftw!)
b452, +Miss Elle: Her head tilted like a confused cat. She was curious why the more outwardly debonair of the two men would be caught without his mask. She herself had only seen him once without. A sudden feeling of sadness overtook her as she looked away. “No. After all, I have only just seen you after all this time.” Wondering if he thought he may be dreaming, She slowly stood and backed away. “Clearly you haven’t despite how it looks.” There was a touch of concern to her voice. Even if the men would have never admitted to it, there must have been some sour feelings between the two unless they enjoyed sharing women. Slowly looking to the window, her heart sent out the most silent plea. /No one could ever kill you, don’t let me be wrong.../
b452, +Miss Elle: Her head tilted like a confused cat. She was curious why the more outwardly debonair of the two men would be caught without his mask. She herself had only seen him once without. A sudden feeling of sadness overtook her as she looked away. “No. After all, I have only just seen you after all this time.” Wondering if he thought he may be dreaming, She slowly stood and backed away. “Clearly you haven’t despite how it looks.” There was a touch of concern to her voice. Even if the men would have never admitted to it, there must have been some sour feelings between the two unless they enjoyed sharing women. Slowly looking to the window, her heart sent out the most silent plea. /No one could ever kill you, don’t let me be wrong.../
8f5c, Slum Rat: +He didn't move against the chill or even pause, whether his eyes could spy her apparition or not was a question that only he could answer and he chose not to spare a word to it. Instead he asked an entirely different tact of a question.+ Have you seen Caleb? +It wasn't an entirely odd question to be sure, the trio of them had been close. Or as close as two men who serviced the same woman could be. Which was that Caleb tolerated his existence because it brought her pleasure. Upon her death, one of those that Caleb had held to blame for her fate was Conchobar himself. His hand drifted to a trio of bullet scars. Three in near perfect proximity so that they almost overlaid each other. Straight through the heart. A fourth bullet wound was hidden behind the mask, to his right temple. Four shots, fired with precision and without hesitation by a man he called his friend. Caleb knew he would not die, but the message was clear. He would kill him as many times as Conchobar decided to show his face to him. +
b452, +Miss Elle: His voice so familiar reached her with a slight recognition in her eyes. A pained smile formed on those lips. It had taken her a long time to gain enough energy to materialize in this way, so she was curious if he had visited before. Knowing it was not the time to question about the mask, she replied to his rather bleak statement. “But I am not even a scar, I am literally nothing.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper as she lowered her eyes. Clearly he had awoken at some point, yet his breathing was still steady and body stationary. Ghostly fingers reached out to run over the contours of his shoulder, the only sensation a slightly chilled air. Perhaps if that woman had come, she could steal that body for just a little while, even if only to feel the imperfections on his skin again.
8f5c, Slum Rat: *The undying man. Conchobar had faced death more than any man perhaps should. He had been put to death, burned alive, hung and decapitated on occasion though the nature of his curse meant that in time he would always return to himself. A body that could not die. Or at least not by any means that a mortal had placed to him. The scars he wore were a litany of that life. More than a thousand years of death and rebirth. Of broken hearts and chasing ghosts. She was another in that lineage. Beneath the mask his eyes were open, the lenses dark enough that they were nearly opaque in origin. However, when he spoke, it was not with the husk of slumber.* I did not become who I am by running from my scars.
b452, +Miss Elle: (Change “His gas mask.” To “that gas mask.”)
b452, +Miss Elle: She stared into that mask, his sleeping features behind it. Quietly Elle wondered what had become of him, and even the very person he masqueraded as. To get emotional over the thought was pointless, he was here now, Caleb was not. There was nothing she could do to change it. As his voice left his lips, it sent a deep pang of longing to the center of her consciousness. Had she a physical body it would have erupted in goosebumps. Her head lifted from the pillow. They were of the same origin, and thinking back it was amusing that they ever came to know one another in this world. A finger snaked out to run along the canister of his gas mask. It would make no noise and hover just a fraction above the metal. If it were his face, she would trace his jawline. That pledge of affection to her was something she always held in her heart. “Move on, Mo ghra. I cannot give you anything but despair.” Her eyes fluttered along his chest again, sights tracing each old injury, marveling at how much he had endured. She wondered how much had been in her honor.
8f5c, Slum Rat: +For a moment let us leave the pair, ghost and man, and recall another time. Another place. After the demise of his mistress, Caleb Sciath had been a man of rage and fury. Many had trespassed thinking to claim her empire in her death and he held each of them accountable for her murder though none of them had actually been responsible for her death. To attempt to profit from his tragedy was the mark of a soul that no longer wished to live. In time, the rumor of the Reaper had grown. It began with a simple street painting. A young woman, a street urchin and tagger by trade, had painted a mural of a grim reaper figure though replacing the traditional skull motif was that of a gas mask. The mural showed the reaper figure wielding a scythe in one hand and a gun in the other. That image gave life to whispers of such a masked man who claimed these places as his own. The young woman, Lydia by name, had claimed that the reaper had saved her one night from her gang when she had crossed the gang leader. Though in actuality, her saving had been a byproduct and not an intent, the gang had moved recently on to what had once been Miss Elle's turf and had been met with brutal retaliation. On a night, two years prior, the reaper had manifested the myth that would keep her territory safe until just recently. A cartel had made plans to move into the district, former associates who knew well the network that she had left behind. They had heard the rumors of the reaper in the gas mask. So they had brought in a small army for the confrontation. But Caleb was ready, body armor and a jacket lined with kevlar were the saving graces of his night. Not every member of the cartel's men were slain that night. Those who lived however spun a tail of the reaper in the gas mask. A man who had taken hundreds of bullets without falling. Who moved like the shadows themselves. A man who once his gaze was upon you, your life was forfeit. With such a legend, even the cartel retreated. And so her territory had been safe.. for two years. But now with the rumor diminishing, gangs were moving in once more and that was what had brought his return. Conchobar would become the reaper they feared since Caleb seemed to have abandoned here. In his slumber, her voice drifted and the man on the bed shifted with her words.* Mo mháistreás. Mo ghrá Thú. *His own lilt a gruffer mirror to hers, distorted by the echo of the mask that he wore.*
b452, +Miss Elle: There it was, a glimmer of recognition in those large hazels. Recoiling as if bitten, her petite hand rested at her chest. Why was he here? That wild man who could never be tamed was resting in her bed like a lost cub. Suddenly her conscious was swarmed with a vivid replay of their time together. The passion, the primal tastes he had always indulged in. They were all there in her memories. Her lips parted and although she was unable to breathe, the flickering image of her sucked in a gasp. Before she could stop herself, her dismembered voice seemed to leak from not herself but the burnt concrete walls crumbling around him. “Cén fáth a dtagann tú chugam?” Her voice was a whisper. The very familiar sweet Irish notes that would be hard to forget. There she floated above the slumbering man, wishing desperately she could touch him to wake him. There would have to be a way, aside from moving inanimate objects. Surely he wouldn’t understand she was attempting to communicate. If only he would wake up, perhaps he would see her there. Yet... would he recognize her? Void of all body modifications, her hair its natural dark hue and long. Miss Elle gingerly lowered herself to the floor, her legs tucked beneath her as she rested her head on her arm. As her head touched the mattress beside his shoulder, no indentation was left. No matter to lend weight beside him. Lifeless, just an image of a woman who he could long ago have touched.
8f5c, Slum Rat: +There were ever distinctions. Markings that separated the man who wore the mask currently from the man who had once worn it. Those distinctions were in the way that his musculature was more pronounced then the slender athletic build of Caleb himself. He was broader of shoulder and slightly taller in height, the shape of his head had also required some adjustment to the mask which hugged slightly tightly against his face. As a result, blonde locks could be seen poking out of the damaged mask. The lacework of old scar tissue marring his visible flesh illustrated a lifetime of battle. Some of those scars were layered over themselves illustrating the age of them though perhaps its most notable was how many of those scars might have been fatal in nature. A jagged ring of white scar tissue, marred by the disruptive touch of wounds that could only have been bullet holes puncturing his neck. A similar jagged white scar wrapped his right wrist where the lacework of scar tissue marring the back of his hand seemed to interrupt before they connected up along his arm. A slightly different puncture, cleaner in its puncture was found on his bicep. He was not quite naked, having stripped off all but the mask that adorned his face and a pair of loose fitting black boxers. The entirety of his body held such intricate scars. Including a large ripple of damaged skin that took up most of his chest all the way to his right hip. A burn? A familiar litany of scar tissue that she might remember depending on how well she remembered the near naked body before her ethereal gaze.*
b452, +Miss Elle: Unable to touch. Unable to comfort. Sad was that very fact that despite her materialized form, her fingers would pass right through anyone she attempted to touch. Yes, objects could be thrown and tampered with, but only at the price she could not manifest an image at that same time. It left the tiny woman a depressed shell of a spirit. Wandering about aimlessly, attempting to find something to occupy her time. A small pool of dust swirled at the bedside. Making not a sound. It slowly tiered into a little tornado before falling again to curtain away from a white, misty structure. There she stood, bare toes hovering an inch or so off the cold concrete floor. She had been burned alive in this room. And that charred bed frame had a newer mattress and blankets cast upon its springs. How peculiar. And even more peculiar was the lump of someone who had thrown themselves down upon it. She stared, hovering there. Quiet as the atmosphere that held no wind or the chirp of birds. Slowly, a hand would extend at the length of a long arm. That arm, no longer tattooed as it once was. Apparently Nini left out small details concerning Death such as the fact your soul would not appear as your outward earthly body had. Fingers twitching, that hand would hover a fraction over the man that occupied her bed. So many questions. Yet there was no way for her heart to beat with raw emotion. She would never forget that mask. Yet it’s current state of disrepair tore at her conscious. Was it him? Or just some phony stopping in to play pretend at her expense.
8f5c, Slum Rat: *Once upon a time, the mask that adorned his face now had been a symbol to those who saw it. A warning that death waited for them should they betray the mistress it served. That mistress had passed away and left the spectre of death that she had once commanded to run wild and reckless. Her enemies knew him as a grim reaper. A visage of death that would emerge from a cloud of smoke to rip their souls away before they could offer even a plea of mercy. Unleashed and unburdened by the morality that she offered that reaper had become a monster. The indentations of the bullets that had failed to pass the reinforced metal casing of the mask, the bullet resistant glass that formed its lenses now fractured from repeated strikes though not pierced through. Any thug, any criminal enterprise or legitimate business that thought it could take what had once belonged to its mistress had run afoul of the deadly specter. But that was years past now. But the whispers of a new hoodlum readying his troops to claim what was not his brought this masked man to the world. And after retrieving his mask, the man had traversed to find himself in what had once been the home of Miss Elle. More directly speaking, in the bed chambers where the body of the woman had once lain. He fell upon that bed, made dusty by disuse, and curled into its old dirty sheets in silence.*
2bff, +Serianca: Quite the tease. huffs I shall catch you eventually! But have a good rest.. while you can. -clacks beak- }
7660, +Ayden Callister: Goodnight to you, Little Bird. ))
7660, +Ayden Callister: -Flicks an unused cigarette at the floor, the cylinder rolling to a stop in the middle of the room.-
      Serianca leaves a soot covered feather for the dear Raven of once before.
b452, +Miss Elle: Unable to leave, that little mistress wove up and down the log hallways like some half torched strand of noir film tape. Half opaque, her form trounced along the labyrinth of tunnel systems emitting her own glow. As if she sensed some sort of presence above, her face would snap to the leaking and cracked concrete ceiling. Large doe eyes, hazel yet faded in an unearthly way would squint a fraction. Things went on outside she could never see, and the very thought frustrated her. A ghastly pale hand would outstretch to balance on the wall, if only for habit and not true support. Why has she been so naive? And in this state she had all the time to ponder and curse herself for it. Biting her lip, thin legs shrouded in a white muslin gown stride forward again, the soles of bare feet hovering an inch or so from the surface of the floor. Step after step, she ascended the staircase to that highest room. The collapsed wall and torched floor the backdrop for this macabre play.
8f5c, Slum Rat: +Dereliction. Abandonment. That which is to left to rot and decay. The discarded things and that which has been lost and left behind. These were what could be found in the District. But even amongst the district there was one place where such broken and lost things could be found in abundance. The junkyard. Where refuse was found. And amongst those broken and discarded things rested a bloodstained gas mask, a broken lens of the left eye and the misshappen denting of bullet marks that the mask had seen its age. On the same mound of trash rested the familiar briefcase, laid spalyed open with its foam inserts forming the echo of two silenced pistols, a collection of throwing knives and other molded spaces for weapons that the briefcase no longer held. Like the mask, the briefcase was riddled with the misshappen bruises of spent bullets warping its frame with dents. The only thing that remained of its owners combat techniques were the spent canisters that rested now exposed in the cases open innards where the foam had been ripped free. A figure places his weathered and scarred hand over top the discarded mask and lifts it by the ventalation muzzle and lifts it up to his own face. The figure places the mask over his face adjusting it to the shape of his head which was larger and broader than its former owner. With the mask affixed, he turned and began to scramble down the mound of discarded trash. He wore a long leather jacket with a hood which he pulled over his head obscuring his hair so all that was seen was the bloodstained mask.+
b452, +Miss Elle: -Shuffles in and lays down face first on a dilapidated couch.-
b452, +Miss Elle: Well... if that 87% includes any chance you might join our server, it would delight me. I’m there almost always. -She watches his finger take a lock of her much longer and much darker hair. However despite that change, big honey hazels still peer up at him with that same old fire.-
8f5c, Slum Rat: *Tangles a finger idly in her hair.* Hah. Indeed
b452, +Miss Elle: -She beams, a toothy grin and laugh.- Better than just 50%
8f5c, Slum Rat: 87%
b452, +Miss Elle: -She smirks and enjoys that moment of physical touch, the act different yet very much the same.- And what’s the chance you have a Discord?
8f5c, Slum Rat: *Snorts and gently taps his forehead against hers.* I'll always circle back around at some point. You didn't give me that long of a leash
8f5c, Slum Rat: Both useless without someone to protect
b452, +Miss Elle: -She Smiles and stands, crossing the floor to her old friend, and peering into his face their height difference extremely evident.- I am glad you came even if just this time.
827a, *Raven: The Sparks, as the two hit each other once again.
8f5c, Slum Rat: The Shield. The Sword.
827a, *Raven: You'll hear no arguments from me.
8f5c, Slum Rat: Aren't we all though?
827a, *Raven: I think times changed us all; pulled us apart, but the storm's put us back together.
b452, +Miss Elle: -She exhales a plume of smoke and closes her eyes.- Hm.... I wouldn’t hold you to that. After all, I am just a ghost now...
8f5c, Slum Rat: Regardless of your actions, I made a promise to you ages ago and I am nothing if not loyal to my promises
b452, +Miss Elle: What a dick move of me... -She pulls out a cigarette and lights the tip with a toy rifle lighter.- And yet here I sat for so long pining for your company. And you were lurking in the shadows all the while.
8f5c, Slum Rat: The details are hazy. Life pulling us in different directions. *Shrugs* I believe as you phrased it, you didn't have much need of me in your life at the time.
b452, +Miss Elle: -She extends an arm for the bird to perch.-
b452, +Miss Elle: Oh? I don’t remember. Refresh my memory? -An eyebrow cocks upward.-
8f5c, Slum Rat: And I do not like being a bother, as you might well remember.
827a, *Raven: *Perches and watches.*
8f5c, Slum Rat: We didn't exactly leave things on the greatest terms when last we spoke.
b452, +Miss Elle: And why not?
8f5c, Slum Rat: Mm. I've seen you haunting here before in my visits.. though I seldom work up the courage to speak.
b452, +Miss Elle: Hm... interesting chance I just so happen to be stalking around as well...
8f5c, Slum Rat: Nostalgia more than, I'd wager
b452, +Miss Elle: Some of my fondest memories. -She smirks and glances about the dust laden crates.- Why are you here?
8f5c, Slum Rat: Mm. We did have some fun in our time didn't we
8f5c, Slum Rat: *Inclines head* Conchobar.
b452, +Miss Elle: Caleb.The one that runs most rampant in my mind....
b452, +Miss Elle: Mo Sciath...-She grows stiff.-
8f5c, Slum Rat: Commonly forshortened to L
8f5c, Slum Rat: Loki and Legion. Lazarus. All names I have used
b452, +Miss Elle: A Legion, Loki and Leonid?
b452, +Miss Elle: I don’t recall a Lazarus... -She tilts her head curiously.-
8f5c, Slum Rat: Man It's been so long I couldn't even tell you. I think... Lazarus was it.
b452, +Miss Elle: Who are you? -She narrows her eyes suspiciously.-
8f5c, Slum Rat: *Waves* Long tim
b452, +Miss Elle: -Crosses her arms and grumbles a few obscenities.-
b452, +Miss Elle: -Peers out from behind a crate quietly.-
b452, +Miss Elle: >.> -Places a donut in a trap to catch the rat.-
b452, +Miss Elle: ...
8f5c, Slum Rat: Hm
b452, +Miss Elle: https://discord.gg/TKhTsu9 Hopeful thinking. I created a Discord.
b452, +Miss Elle: https://discord.gg/TKhTsu9 Hopeful thinking. I created a Discord.

Last Post:5:55pm, October 20 (UTC) (1)

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