this is Salem, a land filled with magic and maladies. It is a place where witches and their elemental familiars gather, a home to legend and
lore that predates time itself. Yet of all the wicked and wonderful stories the past can tell us of, the most magical are the ones yet to happen.
This is Salem - this is the start of your very own journey. Welcome to starfall
Starfall is an animaga witch roleplay set in mostly modern times. Members play as witches in a world plagued by monsters, where the only safe spots are walled cities. Starfall strives to be a character-driven roleplay with expansive lore and a highly interactive plotline. We want to allow members to
create and look back on a magical journey, and mold the site and its plot as their characters grow.
Desmond had always thought that Stefan de Bethune quite resembled a toad. Plumpness hung from every bone, indicative of the many years of luxury he'd enjoyed since ensnaring sufficient contacts and followers to make him nearly untouchable. His mouth seemed just a bit too large for his head, especially when he was in the midst of that loud, obnoxious laugh of his, while his hands seemed just a bit too small. To top it all off, Des happened to know that the underworld lord had an unsightly wart on his chin, though he had become wealthy enough to hide it with potions while in company.
This wasn't the first time that Des had been hired by Stefan, but it was the first time that he would be working with a partner for the request. Their current employer was the type of person who only hired people who were known to be in the top tier of their field, even if the job was fairly simple. It was all about reputation for him, so Des could only assume that his soon-to-be-partner was someone who'd caught the attention of people in power. As inconvenient as it was, at least Stefan had never once tried to push Desmond to do things outside of his contract, so he was tolerable to work for.
Presently, the two of them were having a rather one-sided conversation over tea, with Stefan giving his lengthy opinions of recent events -- particularly, the Helios Knights' passive aggressive treatment of Silvertongue and the crumbling of one of Sundial's protective towers. Desmond, meanwhile, offered his input sparingly at best, and only vaguely enough to avoid chaining himself to any particular opinion.
His most certain statement today came unexpectedly as he gazed down at his barely consumed tea: "The mercenary's here." The interruption sharply halted the flow of conversation, and, for a brief moment, left Stefan at a loss for how to react. Conveniently, the silence would not last long, as one of his lackeys arrives to herald in the last piece of this plan. "Sir, the mercenary's here."
Another length of silence hung in the air before Stefan burst into a laugh. "Ha! Still as sharp as ever. Of course, of course -- bring him in."
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jan 9, 2018 8:48:44 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
he slips through layers of thought like one might put on clothes, draping veils upon veils of detachment between his mission and the quivering core of his morals that ever cry out in protest. the donning of a persona: it is a careful packaging away of his emotions as the fragile compendium of self, wrapping them within the silks of guilt and desperation-fuelled determination that yet chain him to reality, then sliding the smooth stone mask of a dispassionate mercenary over top. kasimir becomes sirius becomes a ghost with no name; he becomes a wraith devoid of humanity existing only for the sake of what orders his masters give.
( or, so he would like to think. stone endures, but stone cannot endure forever, and the unyielding granite of kasimir's guise is but a mere semblance of neutrality that lies all too flimsy above fire. and kasimir is fire no matter how much he attempts to deny, no matter how much he wills himself to be stone; he is deep-rooted passion, rage in the face of injustice that refuses to be quenched even as it is mercilessly suppressed; he is the visceral fear that blazes bright within all those backed into corners, he is the perfervid love that drives him to live and burn even when the rest of him whispers 'die' )
( stone cracks, and stone crumbles, and kasimir is so much less than stone )
( but it is enough. for today, it is enough )
his feet leave no sound trailing in their wake as he follows after the subordinate leading him to his client. hair flutters behind him, dyed muted brown and carefully swept back as is his habit for all clandestine missions. there is a brief moment of wonderance: who is it that is to be his partner? who is it that will be assisting in the capture and interrogation of their target? but it is halted by their arrival; he will find out in the next moment, regardless.
the subordinate enters first. kasimir hears silence, then a burst of laughter, followed by an order to bring him forth. he enters. it feels rather akin to entering a dragon's lair.
"sir," he greets the not-unknown figure of the rather plump man, sketching a slight bow. it is the same detached, neutral politeness he affords all his more... disreputable clients, and for a moment, there seems to be little to separate this particular mission from any dubious task he has been given before - it is but another action laid upon his grave of guilt, but another name to add to his litany of regret.
a second later, his eyes flicker right, to the man seated in opposition to de bethune.
he knows that man.
in an instant, kasimir's world tilts on its axis. reality blurs: for a moment, he is not twenty-one, he is- ten and scared as he awaits the arrival of the one that will 'teach him some respect'; eleven and terrified as a figure steps forth straight from the ichor and pain of his fractured nightmares; thirteen and trembling as he kneels before the consequence of disobeying orders, fifteen with his world painted red and convinced that he will die here at the knives of this demon born into reality; eighteen and drowning from the blood in his lungs as he swears he will not betray his benefactor ( but he does ); nineteen and so relived he will never be tortured thus again, twenty and realising this figment of pain and terror is in fact a colleague within the same coven, twenty-one and doing everything he can to avoid the man that now seats before him, a partner to this mission that is all too reminiscent of his own childhood.
kasimir's quiet neutrality cracks. breaks. shatters, as learned terror screams at him to drop to his knees and close his eyes and pray for a mercy that he does not deserve to take him far from this spectre of agony and torment and darkness.
but he does not, for there is a mission, and there is a client, and there is a target that is not he himself this time; kirjava roars at him within their shared consciousness to pull himself together, for vulnerability is not a luxury they can afford. steel walls slam over his expression, any part of his being that might give away the tidal wave of fear roiling within his stomach is shut down till nothing remains. a non-person, a blank figurine; he-who-is-not-kasimir-not-sirius bows to desmond grey, too, and greets, emotionless, "sir."
how much he has given away, he does not know. de bethune does not appear to have taken note of anything too far out of the unusual when kasimir returns his flat gaze to the client.
Desmond did not have any particularly strong opinions of the boy named Kasimir Burovski. The youth was one victim of Desmond's many contracts, and no remotely sane torturer develops strong opinions of his victims. A long-lived torturer, however, keeps tabs on them long after the contract had ended. After all, resentment often left a permanent stain on the human psyche and a dangerous knife pointed at the back of its afflicter. At least, that's what Desmond had observed in his life's experience. This said, the seer knew a decent amount about the boy: he had become a Silvertonge and developed a reputation as a talented assassin, though a number of his targets' deaths were suspiciously unclear in the seer's visions.
The brief flicker of recognition and fear in the assassin's gaze is not unfamiliar. Though, given their history, he buried it better than most.
"Sirius." Desmond replies to the short greeting in a similar fashion, setting down his cup with a soft clink as it makes contact with the saucer, then turning his gaze back to their current employer. "Well, since we've all arrived, we can get to the heart of this request of yours, Stephan. Surely you don't expect us to chase down a spy with little more than a name."
For a moment, it appeared as if Stephan, curiosity flitting through his eyes, wanted to comment on the vaguely off-beat interaction between his two hires. He wasn't aware that they were acquainted -- or were they simply aware of each other's reputation? The seer's comment, though, redirected his focus. "Of course not," the man scoffed, "People are just calling themselves whatever they want nowadays, especially in our world." Stephan's hand makes a sharp motion at one of his guards, whom appears to immediately understand and execute the wordless instruction as he moves to pick up a shallow box. "Sirius, for Merlin's sake, take a seat. I'm not paying you for formalities."
The guard places the box on the table between them with a quick bow before returning to his post. Stephan opens it, revealing an assortment of papers and odd objects. Desmond's eyes gravitate primarily towards the bloodstained sword, separated from the rest of the objects by a wooden divider.
"Encoded notes written by the man himself, whatever items of his that were left behind last time he was spotted by my people, and the weapon that managed to take a slice out of him," Stephan presents, sitting back in his chair and glancing between the two of them, seemingly quite sure of himself that this was more than enough for them to work with.
Desmond, after a pause, glances over at Sirius. "If I can tell you where to look, are you confident in your abilities to bring him back here?"
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Apr 23, 2018 7:11:28 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
this, he thinks welding a mask of stone unto his face while his heart shudders in his chest and he barely dares to breathe, is likely some semblance of what prey feel like under the predatory eye of a hunter who could so easily rip his larynx out and pry his ribs apart and set him alight to burn. perhaps not in raw strength, raw magic- though that, too, might be debatable considering their difference in age - but power is a hungry thing and knows not the bounds of physicality; one word from this terrifying figment of nightmares personified in a being human in surface semblance, one word and kasimir could be sent dropping to his knees with pleas of mercy on his tongue. that they are nominally on the same side for this mission is no consolation at all.
there is something knowing in desmond grey’s eyes, something contemplative and distant and detached in that unfathomable gaze. he has no doubt the torturer recognises kasimir thereof; what does he see, kasimir wonders bleakly, grimly, what does desmond grey see when he looks at kasimir now? a victim still, dressed in fine crimson weave and steeped in agony? another nightmare in the making, darkness tangled within his very soul and blood dripping from his hands? the pitiful remnants of someone broken and broken and broken again, roughly woven back together in fire and defiance, ready to be broken again? or perhaps he looks and sees nothing at all, for looking implies seeing and some things simply are not important enough to be seen.
‘focus,’ kirjava reminds him with a tone both gentle and fierce, and brings to him again the smooth regalia of the emotionless. it does not fit him, has never fitted him properly no matter how many times they have broken his limbs to force him inside, but it fits even worse now, hanging loose and cracked and far too tight on his frame. ‘focus on the present.’
he readjusts his gaze to de bethune, letting the mission settle in the forefront. a hunt fit for a natural born hunter, a puzzle to be solved, a task to be complete. lets his world narrow down to orders and deference and unquestioning obedience. “yes sir,” he responds quietly, takes a single step forth, and seats himself, economic and unobtrusive in movement. the less attention he draws the better - he is not here to think and plan and involve himself like desmond grey, he is here as a tool to be used and wielded, and that is all he needs to be.
the box presented to them is so simple in appearance, revealing nothing of the power it holds to shatter a man’s life so. he stares at it, every inch of his body set in still and unmoving granite save the green of his eyes; what he would not give for the box to simply spontaneously combust on the table saving a victim from his tortuous fate!
( but no, that is a lie; kasimir would give much to save a life, but hardly everything and anything. he is simply too selfish, too attached, too human to give up that which is truly important to him. there are some things worth more than the world to him, much less a single human life, and there is little more monstrous a realisation than that )
there is a question posited and his stomach twists itself into knots, but kasimir lets none of it show because he has promised himself he will survive this; he nods, once, and says, “yes, sir.” two words and a fate is sealed, because kasimir knows with bleak, agonising certainty that jasper flint is no match for them at all.
sometimes, he truly, utterly despises himself for being permitted to live.
It was a shame that Kasimir had been reduced to such an an obedient dog, slowly self-destructing for the sake of someone else whom he loved more than himself. (Because how could he love himself, after becoming such a broken creature?)
Desmond was familiar with that story. Too familiar. Even so, he felt no sympathy for the assassin.
At Kasimir's affirmative response, the seer stands and picks up the bloodied blade. He holds the hilt loosely between the joints of two fingers, making his intent to not wield it clear despite his lack of spoken words. He moved to the cabinet where Stephan always kept the bowl which he usually retrieved for Desmond to scry with. They had danced this dance so many times already. Too many times for Stephan to assume that Desmond couldn't extract information from a single spy on his own. Why, then, had he hired two Silvertongues this time?
The bowl was where it always was. Desmond takes it and places it in front of him as he sits with his back against the wall. Water is something the seer always has on hand, always kept in a water skin next to his liquid vice of the day (today, it was mead). The seer pours the clear liquid over the blade, letting it drip, tainted faintly by crimson, into the bowl.
And he looks into its surface.
He wants to first see how the blood was drawn. He asks with his mind and his mana reaching into the pool, letting his conscious drift ever so slightly as he navigates the web of questions and possibilities...
The seer is silent for a few dragging minutes before he again raises his head, disregarding any joking comments from Bethune as if they were never said. "Sirius, follow me, please," he says as he stands. His tone is not a mere suggestion. "We'll be back in a few hours," he assures vaguely as he makes his way to the exit.
