Devils in the Machine

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Art from Xelter/fbfChuck!
War happened, it was glorious. Although I haven’t seen that particular incarnation of her outfit since her conception XD
go give xel some love

Art from Xelter/fbfChuck!

War happened, it was glorious. Although I haven’t seen that particular incarnation of her outfit since her conception XD

go give xel some love

Reblog if you do violent roleplays.

nonamenotheralias:

image

"Why are you pointing that gun at me?"

German gained a slightly questioning expression, though it was almost comical the way it creased and shifted across ivory flesh. Abyssal blue eyes fell to the weapon pointed in the direction of the nervous programmer before she shrugged.

"I pointed scheisse at you, you valked in front of it."

May 9

xhalfman:

                                                                                 & ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴛʜᴇ  

                                                                                   M̴̹̪̙̲͙̗̏̉O̶̧̤̭͕̺̝̠̊̿̾̾N̨̟̱̫̰̝̿́S̨̲̣̹̒ͥ̈́͂͊ͨͤ͡͡T̬̙ͩͥͣ̂ͦ̀Ē͕͕̹̭̅̚͢Ṛ̶̡͓̒̄̾ͬ̈́ͤ̿ͦ

                                                                                             ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʟʟ sᴀʏ ɪ ᴀᴍ.

May 3
hyperb0rean:

The vision of Death on a pale horse Gustave Doré 1865

hyperb0rean:

The vision of Death on a pale horse 
Gustave Doré
1865

May 2
wilburwhateley:

Nacho Yasüe

wilburwhateley:

Nacho Yasüe

May 2
breachthechrysalis:

Fuyuko Matsui

breachthechrysalis:

Fuyuko Matsui

May 2
uromancy:

Edouard Ravel de Malval. Death On A Pale Horse. 19th Century.

uromancy:

Edouard Ravel de Malval. Death On A Pale Horse. 19th Century.

(Source: candleghost)

May 1

&

Famine actually jumped at the movement toward her leg. It had been a mistake to wear something shorter that didn’t cover the scarring on the afflicted, but she still couldn’t quite avoid the curious fingertips.

Cold, hard silvery gaze stared at the blond-haired hacker, the only semblance of emotion on her face being a thinning of lips. “May I help you?”

May 1

“I will always want you.”

The depression was setting in, hard. War rarely showed it openly and especially didn’t come out and say it. After all, outright emotions just weren’t her thing, those were taboo. Big Bad War didn’t feel, she was an abomination who was always hungry for the taste of chaos, for blood and the metaphoric gunpowder.

But it wasn’t all that hard to see when something wasn’t right if you knew what to look for. Isolation for longer than normal, a quiet despondency. With it came the unseen, the paranoia. That twinge in the back of her mind that told her a number of things. Things that, under the correct mentality, she would be able to accept as nothing more than imaginary worries and fears.

How long had she been up here, this session? She hadn’t touched a comm-screen or answered calls in days, hadn’t eaten or slept. It was hard to keep track of the days under the Dome; the lights dimmed after a certain time and brightened again after that time had passed, but it was just such a subtle change that it was easy to lose when not paying much attention to it, even nestled in the tangled jungle of cables and wires dangling from the ceiling, close to a cluster of the massive UV lamps.

She was aware of the intrusion of another, not even minding that very few people knew where this nest was. It was still taken into account somewhere in that subconscious mindset and no doubt that any harm or pain inflicted would draw out an animalistic retaliatory response as result, but for now, no real mind was paid.

At least until that familiar warmth and sight, the familiar scent and feel encompassed her, wrapped about her curled and weakened body, invaded and overwhelmed all senses, the rolling sound of his voice infiltrating her dulled hearing in those five little words. Unresponsive trance state was broken just enough, small amount of glimmer and life to otherwise glazed lifeless eyes sparking into existence and returning some color.

Arms moved finally, heavy, wrapped around leather-clad shoulders and tightened just enough to give herself some reassurance. Her voice couldn’t work, air rushing passed the cords made no vibration, just a small airy noise, leaving the embrace as a form of thanks more than anything. Past session’s insomnia finally managed to catch up with her, world drifting slowly out of her sight. Comfort, easing out of that cluttered mind a number of voices jeering, cajoling into strict silence.

Sleep.

May 1

The Virgin Queen
Medieval Baebes

My care is like my shadow
Laid bare beneath the sun
It follows me at all times
And flies when I pursue it

I freeze and yet am always burned
Since from myself again I turn
I love and yet am forced to hate
I seem stark mute; inside I prate

Some gentler love doth ease itself
Into my heart and mind
For I am soft and made of snow
Love, be more cruel or so be kind

May 1

“I used to pretend that I felt okay.”

The shop wasn’t closed, but Death had no intention of staying inside it. With the greenhouse handled and concoctions set to brew, Baptiste had sat beneath the orange tree and screamed incessantly at nothing in particular. The ghost’s vocalizations were … haunting, to put it lightly, and today was a day that his son had decided that he was just not going to deal with it. Hence, the Haitian had parked himself outside the shop, at the bottom of the crumbling concrete stairs, with a glass of chilled mint tea and a book, Minerva coiled around his neck.

He was not alone for too long. Today was performance upgrades and testing, and so Famine had joined him on the street with Plague and Nehvatka, sending a call to War to bring the old Dragon out of the garage for the same treatment.

Plague had snapped open the skin shell and underlying armored plating of his left arm to allow his elder sister in to check the physical systems when that shock of flaxen hair on the much taller Burner hacker came into view. He had come on his own, which was progress; some time ago, he would not have come anywhere near the cemetery on grounds of it being even remotely haunted, rumor or real. The words that fell from his mouth caused painted brow to furrow, Haitian trying to make sense of it, to find the right response so as not to sound despondent to it.

"We all do at s’me point.” he finally settled, offering with a hand to one side of him, a seat. “If’n y’b’wantin’ the true-truth o’ the matter, cher, in t’is tryin’ time, i’s gon’be all we got, pretendin’ to be okay.”

Darker, depressing, but it might do the blond good to know he’s not the only one who thinks that. Glass of chilled tea was handed to him. “Take a drink, if’n y’b’wantin’. Might keep y’head leveled.”

May 1

Jennet's Song
Mediaeval Baebes

May 1

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