[Meng Long]

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For the Fallen

[attr="class","ilikeyouheadsubtext"]We will remember them

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It is a peculiar thing to give grief a place sometimes. While the life of a huntsman is oft cut short by the tribulations of the profession, not everyone dies with glory and honour. Some huntsmen died on the privy after a heart attack. Some huntsmen took their own life after they had drunken themselves into a coma they never wake up from. Some huntsmen died because the mistakes of their past kept hounding them like a cold shadow, ever creeping closer and closer. Some huntsmen died because they chose the wrong action at the critical split-second moment in time when it mattered. Some huntsmen died because an alleged mechanical failure crashed their airship in a frozen hellscape that became their watery grave. [break] [break]
Because beyond the inherent strength, prestige, and influence that the position of Huntsman and Huntress gave an individual, they remained very much mortal. As they one day had been born on Remnant, so one day will they leave it behind. At times there was a body, but more often than not a Huntsmen who died in the field would remain there ever so. Some as heroes, some as villains, most as simply a name on a wall. All of them mortals doomed to die. [break] [break]
The pain of growing old is that you need to say goodbye to many things. Losing your 20/20 vision, not feeling your finger joints ache somewhat every waking moment, and forgotten things you did a few moments ago are the common trivial aspects that Men Long had easily accepted as the burden of growing older. Most people would in one or another way feel blessed if they could live to Meng’s respectable age of 63 and still be in as good a state as she was. Maybe those in Atlas, or the privileged in the big cities, could say that their average life expectancy is starting to surpass that number one day, the reality in Remnant is that many live a life that is mostly solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. Certainly, for a Huntress who was 63. [break] [break]
Meng Long has had too many funerals. Too many services in which she remembers colleagues. Too many remembrance for dead students who met an unfortunate end during their time at the academy. That doesn’t mean that she doesn’t go to each and every one she is able to if she was invited. Sacrifice deserves recognition. A life dedicated fighting the creatures of Grimm does deserve some form of respect, regardless of the way that life has ended. However, in which way this regard for such a life is presented varies from person to person. One can honour the fallen in a myriad of ways. Secretly, or openly. With words, or silently. With tears, or with a solemn gaze. Meng Long has had too many funerals to dictate to others how they should grief, so the remembrance ‘service’ at Haven was a rather bland affair designed to give people the space to process the loss in their own way.[break] [break]
One of the classrooms had been removed of the normal interior. The student desks and chairs had made way for a more proper décor. At one end of the room, close to the entrance, were placed two tables with a black cloth covering them. On each table was a photo, as well as a decently thick book for students to write down their final words to the departed. The tables were large enough that students could also leave behind items on them. Three ways to remember the fallen. With a last glance, with a few words spoken or written down, or with a final offering. It offered most students a manner to say goodbye without abiding by one specific creed or religion. It gave choice without forcing it upon students. With Remnant’s different ways of life, and students often coming from all over the world, it would be impractical to give 20 different services at the academy’s expense. This was the best alternative, all though it had been criticized as being a little bit impersonal. [break] [break]
The first table had a picture that depicted Lucian van Sange. One of the few photos on which he looked somewhat presentable. A headshot that was on file in the archives of the school, most likely taken when he applied for the position of Teacher. It was one of the only pictures without those stupid sunglasses. Long never liked the glasses, it is not proper to always wear them indoors. It was honestly one of Lucian van Sange’s lesser shortcomings, and Long was happy that they had at least one picture that they could use without them. The man had quite spectacular eyes, and the old woman always found it secretly sad that he hid them from the world behind orange tinted glasses. Not that she had ever told him that in person, but she could do it now. In her head. [break] [break]
The second table had a picture that depicted Qiu'li of Luòyè. Student, friend, criminal. The picture would honestly portray the boy in his natural state of being. A scowl and an unemotive expression. This time it wasn’t the photo that the school had on record, but another one that Meng Long had asked one of the students to give her. The photo that the school had on file was the photo that was officially presented as the face of a now-dead criminal. The boy, as honestly he was little more than that, wouldn’t go into the annals of history as someone who will be remembered for his good qualities. That official photo would not stay into public consciousness as the face of a person who is anything else than a butcher. Meng didn’t want the photo that was used to remember Qiu’li today to be that photo. It doesn’t give justice to the full person that Qiu’li was, the person that would be forgotten to time as only the blood-soaked name remained in the mind of people, until that as well would one day die out.[break] [break]
The rest of the room were filled with a few standing tables on which pitchers with water and a few trays of cookies were presented. While it honestly couldn’t be called a proper reception after a funeral, there was room for people to get together after they have had their moment and talk if there were other people in the room. If they wanted a moment here with other people to share in their grief. The room was open for three days before classes started, and people could walk in and out when it suited them. Normally it wouldn’t be open this long, but because there were still some investigations currently running and a lot of students were affected because of past events, it was decided to give students three days the time to find a moment in their schedule to say their final goodbyes. Meng Long was present almost entirely on the first day, and at moment on the second day. She wished that she could have spend more time comforting students if they needed her, but with everything going on, it was already questioned if the time that she did spend on the remembrance could not better be diverted to another task. Meng Long had ignored those comment with the bravado of a woman who didn’t need to fear for her job. Meng Long was quite certain by this point that she was cursed to outlive just about every teacher this school had, doomed to only die when the entire school had gone up in smoke and not just a part of it. She was going to die in this place, most likely, but not for some time. No.[break] [break]
After these three days, the books with final words would be presented to the places they would be most cherished. Meng Long would make sure that Luòyè would receive Qiu'li's book. Containing words written by their chosen son, and those written by others about his deeds. Either good or bad, they would receive this as they could not return a body. The book written with words about Lucian van Sange. Meng Long knew of only one person who could appreciate it, and the old crone was going to hand it to her personally when this all was over.

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[attr="class","ilikeyoufoottext"]WORDS: 1387
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Thread Total: 1387
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NOTES: Grandma always liked his eyes

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[Carmim Clover]

❝ AURA: 100% TAG: @sadboigang NOTES: D': WORDS: 1934 | TWC: 1934 HAVE YOU SEEN HER? HAVE YOU HEARD? THE WAY SHE MOVES, THERE ARE NO WORDS It had scarcely been a week since she'd gotten back from Rochdale. And in that time, everything had all gotten so much worse. So, so, very, much worse. The meeting... And her outburst. She felt so ashamed of herself, letting her emotions boil over like that. She'd been withdrawn for the most part since then. She was supposed to meet with the new Red Class faculty member soon, but they still needed to schedule an appointment. Until then, she was under strict instruction not to carry any weapons on her person. Which wouldn't stop her from grieving properly. She wouldn't let Shadecloak and her stupid rules take that away from her too. It didn't, however, help her adjust any. She was a nervous wreck, as she walked, tentatively to the room Mrs. Long had set up for the remembrance services. She'd thought about not going- seeing as Qiu'li would be there. Or well, no. Not Qiu'li. But his memory. And the people attached to it. She was afraid. She didn't want to see his face, even though she knew she would have to. But more importantly, she wasn't sure what to do for Qiu'li. In their short time together, he'd never told her much at all about his village's customs. And granted, Van Sange wasn't from her village, so what she was planning on doing for him was arguably not likely what his people would have done for him, but to her knowledge, he didn't exactly have any people anymore. She was probably the closest he had. Which was even sadder than his untimely death. But for Qiu'li, she didn't want to send him up to the Lady in the Stars without the right rituals for his tribe. She doubted they were the same as hers. Frankly, she would be surprised if they were similar at all. She had debated going to the remembrance room, at all, honestly. The first day passed, and she laid in bed. The second day passed, and much the same. She was scared. But she knew she would regret missing the chance entirely. So, as she turned into the room, in the evening, on the third day, she found it thankfully empty, at least to her perhaps less-than-observant eyes. At least, if there was anybody around, they hadn't said anything when she tripped and stumbled , falling hard onto her right side as she entered. She stood with relatively no reaction- she'd gotten used to falling lately. It was what happened when she didn't have eighteen kilograms of solid wood strapped to her left side; she overcompensated, as a reflex, and when there was nothing there to compensate for, she fell. Like phantom pains, almost. She dusted herself off easily, though, and cast a wary glance to Qiu'li's table. She really hoped that he could forgive her. Even knowing that she could never forgive him. And even though she was still sure that he wasn't dead when she'd left Rochdale, somehow, some way, she knew that he had to be, by then. She was just waiting for the night when his spirit came to haunt her, for throwing him at that Gigas, and for not helping him to destroy it. Maybe if she'd helped him, he would have survived... It was thoughts like those that had led her to cover the mirrors and windows in hers and Aegle's room with black cloth, and dust the edges of the walls with salt and smoked herbs. Deep down, some part of her was afraid that Qiu'li was going to come back for her, and blame her for what happened to him, even though she knew she had only done what he'd asked. Still... It felt like she was the one who'd killed him, not the Gigas. And she didn't like it. Cautiously, she approached his table, seeing the two books and the picture. Listless red eyes caught sight of the boy's grumpy, emotionless, frown. She remembered that frown. She'd seen it every time they had ever interacted- she'd wondered, long ago, if he was a robot or something, secretly sent from Atlas to do cool robot things. Nobody human just... Lacked emotions like that. Was he human, though? She wasn't sure anymore. She liked to think he was. Before her eyes could get misty and sad, she gingerly reached out and turned his picture away. She couldn't look at it anymore, for one thing, and she didn't want him to watch her mourn Van Sange. Because she didn't know how to mourn for Qiu'li. Stepping away, carefully, so as not to trip again, the redhead approached the other larger table. This one held a book, which she could see a bit of writing in, and a photo. He looked happy. And as she stared into the picture frame, she was greeted by eyes that looked like hers, and hair that looked like hers. She wondered if he was actually a part of her family, somehow. In a large sense, he was. At least, from the little bits Vermel had told her, when she first returned from Rochdale. Maybe not a very friendly, always-around, kind of family, but he was always there. She still didn't really know why. She wasn't sure if she ever would. All she knew was that he was a good teacher, and a good person. She didn't care what the news said. She especially didn't care what Shadecloak said. Lucian van Sange was a good man. And he didn't deserve to die alone, burned alive. He didn't deserve to live alone. She wished that she'd gotten to know him better. "Hello Professor van Sange. Her voice was soft, gentle, and as fragile as she felt inside. She hesitated, not really sure what to do next. This was different from her uncle's funeral- that had been a huge ceremony, with lots of people, and other people had done all the talking. Her father had performed the funeral rites that she was about to recite. Frowning as she tried to think of something else to say, Carmim stood there for a few moments before she slowly sat down in front of the table. She reached into her bag and pulled out three items; one, pair of scissors; two, a small jar of wood ash, the lid slightly bent from her fall earlier; and three, a large clay bowl, which she set, open-side down, in her lap. First, she took the scissors and carefully took a long, decently thick, lock of her hair into her fingers, before snipping it off. This, she reached up to place in front of van Sange's photo. It was her tribute to him, a piece of her, imparted in his memory. A deep breath, and a slow exhale, before she opened the jar and stuck two fingers in. Then, carefully, just as she remembered from watching her father do the same thing, many times before, the young griot's apprentice spread the sooty powder from one side of her cheek to the other, over the bridge of her nose, in a straight line. She spread another line in the nook between her lips and her chin, and then anointed her forehead with yet another dark streak. Then, delicately, she closed her eyes, and applied the ash to her eyelids as well, making sure that each of these markings were thick and bold. Satisfied, she closed her jar, and set it aside, before wiping her dusty fingers on her black dress- a rarity, for a girl who so often chose to wear pants instead of dresses and skirts. She closed her eyes. And imagined the stars, far overhead, outside of the room's walls and ceiling. Somewhere, in that cloud of twinkling light, lived the little old lady who'd made the entire world out of a handful of sand, and a few drops of water. She smiled to herself, remembering her uncle's beautifully-told story. The Lady in the Stars, who had created mankind, and who loved them so much, that when they were done with their time on Remnant, she would reach down and pluck them up, placing them among the stars, so that each and every person ever born could live with her forever. But there were many people, and the Lady might not know when it is someone's time. That was one of the village griot's many responsibilities; sending up the spirits of his or her people, so that the Lady could find them. That was what Carmim was going to do, for Lucian van Sange. It was the least she could do; she hadn't been there when he'd died, after all, to save him. But she could be with him in the end, as he smiled at her through the picture frame, his same cocky grin that she would never forget. She began by humming the tune, sweet and low, before adding the "drum." It felt wrong, not having Storyteller for this. That drum had sent more souls to the Stars than she had met in her entire life; it was an old, historied, relic, and the Academy was treating it like a murder weapon, just because she happened to have a semblance that relied on it. As if she was going to go around blowing up buildings with it. She cleared her head, as the dull sound of the clay bowl did its best to replicate the rich, powerful, tones of a well-played djembe. And then, she began to sing. Softly, and with a voice that, while not the best suited for singing, wasn't unpleasant to listen to. A melodic, light, mezzo-soprano. "Watch over him, watch over him, our Lady far above, T'is man, today, he comes to you, wrapped in your endless love; Watch over him, watch over him, please guide him on his way, T'is man today, he's going home, to t'e stars, so far away; Please take my friend and brot'er, and please hold him to your heart, For he longs to see his Mot'er, dancing freely, in t'e stars; Watch over him, watch over him, our Lady far above, T'is man today, is leaving us, but we send him wit' our love T'is man today, he's leaving us, and we send him wit' our love." By the time she was done singing, some of the ash had melted from her face under a stream of warm tears. She'd known since she was very small that she would need to one day bear this burden, and perform her village's traditional funerary rites. But it was so much harder than she'd have imagined it would be... It was someone she knew. Someone she had seen, every day, for months, in so many of her classes. It was hard. She was sad, and it was because he was gone; all of him, now, now that she'd cast his spirit up into the heavens. He wasn't always the friendliest professor, and they hadn't really spoken too much. But she considered him her friend. And while he was going to be happier, up in the stars, she was going to miss him here, on Remnant. She sat there, finished with her song, and, even though she didn't think she had tears left inside her, she couldn't stop her eyes from crying, any more than she could stop her lungs from filling with air, or her veins from running with blood. If nobody came into the room with her, eventually, after about an hour or so, she'd stand up, write "we miss you" in his book, and leave.

LAIKA OF GS!

[Evangeline Lys de Verre]

tell me pretty lies

template by Punki of Adoxography

Carmim Clover -x- 1068 -x- what a thing to return to

The past few months had been a wild ride for Evangeline. And not in the good sense. A sudden return back to Atlas was necessary because her mum had fallen very ill. The last few months had been spent with tenseness that Evangeline had not known before in her life. There was a certain kind of feeling that one felt when your own health was at risk... But when someone else's health was at risk, it was so much worse. It was like a corroding, gnawing feeling at the very core of you, constantly whispering doubts and fears into your mind. It had been a very difficult time for Evangeline.

And then the crux of it had happened. Her mum's condition had gotten worse and worse until... Well... The inevitable happened. It was the worst point in Evangeline's life. It was so bad that she had fallen into a depressive state for weeks, perhaps months. Her scroll had been left untouched on her desk all that time, sometimes still vibrating with texts. Perhaps hundreds of missed text messages from her friends back in Haven, including from her boyfriend, Qiu'li. She hadn't seen any of it. She had only just stayed in her room, stayed in her bed, not doing anything of note, disassociating. Lis Fleurissant stayed untouched, and the only thing Evangeline ever really registered was occasionally noticing that she still held onto a red silken scarf.

It was that red silken scarf that had finally brought her back to reality. The remembrance that despite her mom's passing, she still had duties to fulfill and people to look after. Her dad had taken it very badly as well, and he was just as depressed, but he was trying. Sure, any time she saw him when he visited her, he smelled strongly of alcohol and slurred his words, but he was trying. Trying to live. Trying to move on. Trying to help his daughter come to terms with it. And her friends probably never even knew about any of this. Why had she joined Haven? Why was she training to become a huntress? It was because she wanted to help people. Although her mother had not died to anything she could've helped as a Huntress, she could still prevent this loss happening to other people from reasons she could stop, like the Grimm. All this pain and suffering she was feeling, she could grow from it, learn from it, and use it as a reason why no one should ever feel what she felt at this moment.

So with a steeled heart, albeit broken, she picked herself up mentally and made the decision to return to Haven. How long had it been? Almost half a year? More? Less. She didn't know. But when she returned, things seemed different. Very different. In a very bad way. She had checked most of her messages from most of her friends, like Carmim and Argent and Kishka and others. Usually messages asking where she was in increasingly worried and concerned ways as time went on without a response from her. The one person whose messages she hadn't read yet were Qiu'li's. That was the one thing she was looking forward to. Seeing him. He could make her feel better. He always did. His red sash, which was currently tied around her right arm, was still a solid feeling of comfort for her.

But the place seemed... Off. The air was heavy for some reason. And some parts of haven looked like it had been damaged badly by a fire or something. What had happened? She saw students in dark clothes, many of them morose. She asked a random student what had happened, and the student just gave her directions to a room. The Remembrance room? What?

So she had walked there, every step bringing with it a rising trepidation, a colder embrace of dread around her heart. And then she entered it.

The first thing she heard was someone singing. Her eyes instantly went to the person singing and she knew it was Carmim. Evangeline's face shifted to slight confusion, before she looked around the room. Looked at the pho-

Her mind stopped.

It just stopped.

She stood there like a statue, not moving, not hearing, not seeing, just with a blank look of mild shock and disbelief on her face. She wasn't even blinking and it was like she wasn't breathing either. Was she?
She wasn't sure how long she was standing there, didn't hear anything said to her. There was a ringing in her ears, inside her head... It was so loud... And everything felt like it was on a precarious edge, on top of the tallest peak, above a fall that looked like it went on forever.

It was only when Carmim moved to exit the room, and stopped in front of Evangeline with a small jump of surprise that Evangeline's eyes slowly shifted to her friend's. She felt the first tear escape her eye. "Carmeem?" She asked, her voice nothing but a hushed whisper. A begging whisper. A pleading whisper. A request for... For what? To tell her this wasn't happening? To tell her this wasn't real? She didn't know what she wanted to know, or what she wanted to say, or what she wanted to do. She had the distant registration of feeling her violin case slipping from her fingers and falling to the floor with a loud sound, her fingers not responding to her, unable to move or grip. She just stared at her best friend with an utter look of disbelief and confusion, another silent tear now streaming down from her other eye. She didn't look sad or anything yet... She looked simply like someone who couldn't process what she was seeing, eyes wide, eyebrows slightly tilted, an expression of utter incredulity on her face.

She hoped that this was a dream. That this wasn't real. That Carmim would tell her the faces looking back at her from the pictures were just normal pictures, and not some kind of memorial for the fallen. Something. Anything. Even the most preposterous of ideas, she would accept over the harsh truth staring back at her. That's right. Carmim probably knew. She would tell her it wasn't what it looked like and it was just nothing to worry about. Her best friend would set things right. She would help her.

[Alexandros Skouriá]

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STEP ASIDE, RELOAD, TIME TO GO[break]

I CAN'T SEEM TO CONTROL ALL THIS RAGE THAT'S INSIDE ME

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I should have been there.[break][break]

The Tenth of January, Year 26 After Vale.[break]
Kingdom of Mistral, Haven Academy; late afternoon.[break][break]

Things had rather suddenly become very, very bad. Far away to the East, in Rochdale, a small handful of volunteer students had been put through hell, while back in the city the academy was burning. Lives on both sides had been lost, with both situations being complete and utter failures if the gossip was to be believed. Alexandros had gone back home into the heart of the Wind District over his allotted break time in the cold Mistralan winter, and had fully intended to return to Haven after a few days of well-deserved rest. Instead, however, the Skouriá boy had stayed home for quite some time due to his mother, Zenobia, falling ill -- for just long enough to keep him away from the danger.[break]
So, like many others, Alexandros returned to the academy after an extended period of quiet, and was greeted by burnt-out wreckage and ruin. The student body had been briefed on the act of terrorism that had taken place, as well as an overview concerning the Rochdale fiasco, and none of it was good. The news alone would have been bad enough, but the whole thing swerved from bad to abso-fucking-lutely worse after a few colourful outbursts; Alex kept himself out of things by staying quiet, knowing that nothing good could have come from adding to that chaos. Carmim had blown a hall in a wall with her drum, a whole bunch of others were screaming at the top of their lungs, all while Colton was sneaking around like... well, like something that snuck around- it didn't matter; the whole thing was completely bizarre and very emotionally-charged, and the debacle would not have been made any better with additional drama. The news that professor Lucian van Sange and well-known student Qiu'li of Luòyè had been killed in action had already hammered away at the young man.[break]
At least there was some sort of consolation to be found in it all: at the behest of faculty, an undamaged room had been converted into a temporary pseudo-shrine in honour of the lives lost, offering a space for any who wished to use it to pay their dues to the dead. It was here, in this room with its dense air of misery, that Alexandros Skouriá found himself in a position of tremendous weakness.[break][break]

His ears were ringing with the sound of guilt.[break]
His heartbeat had become all dull and deafening, echoing deep below while making his skin crawl.[break]
The words inside his head were loud, and showed no signs of silencing.[break][break]

Lucian van Sange was a man with which the boy had had a relationship best described by Alexandros himself as thoroughly professional. The professor was a teacher and a master, and little more -- and there was nothing wrong with this, as it was, perhaps, for the best. A great if somewhat peculiar man who had given much in service to the world, van Sange would almost certainly fall into the records of history as a hero. Maybe not the most noble, or the most approachable, but a hero; someone who despite everything, Alex decided, was still good at heart. For a little while, the boy simply stood and looked at the framed photo set upon the table, unsure of what to do, or how to feel about it all. Powerlessness soon pressed up to the forefront of his thoughts, bringing it with it those five terribly ugly words:[break]
I should have been there.[break]
Alex had failed. If the duty of a huntsman -- even if only one in training -- was to protect others, then the trainee was all too willing to rail himself for a lack of action. It was not his fault, of course, that family duties had kept him away from Haven when disaster struck, but that fact of the matter was much too rational. No, rationality and objectivity no place here. The boy, with nothing to offer besides his presence, and without a thing to say, simply gave a small and solemn nod of the head to his professor's memory, and moved on. That had been the easier of the two to 'deal with' so to speak, which meant that the amber-eyed youth was left to handle something much harder.[break][break]

Alexandros took slow and tiny steps on his way to the other table and its black cloth covering, eyes fixated not on its own framed picture but instead the open book set in front of it.[break][break]

Quiet.[break]
If there were words, they weren't coming; not easily, anyway, and not through the haze of swirling emotions dancing on the walls of his mind. There was no moment of profound and sudden and total understanding, and instead the Skouriá boy stood silent as the gravity of it all loomed high overhead, and cast its awful shadow down upon book, powerless to stop himself from falling into its gloom; then, as if drawn to the paper in that foreboding notebook, Alex slowly and solemnly placed a hand upon the open page before him with little more than the Aura faintly surrounding his trembling fingertips, more delicate and deliberate than he cared to realize in the hush of it all. A breath in, then out. A breath in, then out... calmly -- oh, so very calmly.[break]
"You're a real bastard," he squeezed out through grit teeth, "you know that?"[break][break]

There was no getting around it; Qiu'li was a killer.[break][break]

Alexandros pulled back from the book and balled his hand into a fist, bracing himself in a tight grip on the covered table with his other hand. Rage was roaring up inside him, now, overflowing and pulsing out like rushing waves of hatred surging up and down every part of his body. The young hunter's breathing grew louder and shakier, and desperately shallow, as an intense twinge of complex feelings spiked and slinked down through his arm -- to his fist -- and, for only a moment, brought with it a touch of colour. Bloomery burned for but an instant, and with it burned the tiniest wave of heat.[break]
As quickly as it came, it was gone -- all of it. All of the grief, and the confusion, and the complete and utter disgust over what was reported in Rochdale drained away, and whatever malice was between his clenched fingers faded away as he unfurled back to a splayed open hand. Once more Alex rested upon the pages cast under that grey shadowy veil, and pressed down.
Not hard but not gentle, he found himself thinking.[break]
Not angry -- not now. There, still holding onto the table, he had suddenly become numb to it all.[break]
Just thinking.[break]
Thinking...[break][break]

Autumn, Year 22 After Vale.[break]
Southern Anima, the journey to Shiroyama Village; behind schedule.[break][break]

Unit Nine of the Imperial Mistral Freight Company had been moving slowly from day one, and pace had only gotten worse with time and distance from the capital. Between the weather and the terrain and the lack of communication and the idiotic decision from higher-ups in corporate to trial a new route, the delivery of necessary supplies and specialty goods was shaping up to be a logistical nightmare; differences in time taken from departure to arrival were an annoyance that was to be expected the further one was from the heart of the kingdom, but a trek which could usually be completed overland in a matter of days had already blown out to damn-near a week. The crew were, naturally, starting to get upset, and it wasn't long at all before 'upset' had blossomed into 'pissed off' as it so often did. Shiroyama was always prone to this sort of shit: delays, or lost cargo, or damage to equipment... the place must've been cursed.[break][break]

Leo Skouriá sat in the bed of a half-empty carrier trailing the rest of the convoy, slumped up against a heavy wooden crate and kept awake by little more than the dance of shock absorbers beneath as Unit Nine pressed on over the rough and muddy landscape. His body ached, as it always did, while the sweet thundering hum of overworked engines drilled in through his ears. Sat beside him on his right side, within easy reach of his remaining flesh-and-blood arm, was the very same rifle and bayonet that had earned him his asymmetrical injuries; 'old faithful' it had been called, like so many other keepsakes from the lowest point in just as many lives. Stretching some while still seated firmly in place, Leo pushed forward and gave himself room to arch back and look up above to the grey skies and even greyer clouds. There was still plenty of rain yet to fall. Leo groaned and tightly shut his lonely left eye for a scant moment, blocking out as much of the outside world as he could to stay sane. One second and then another had passed of this not-quite-rest when a particularly violent jolt catapulted the soldier back into reality. The forest had turned all craggy and thickety at its edges where the foothills of the mountain started their rise up from the untarnished earth far away from civilization, with whatever line-of-best-fit constituting a road being no more than the lesser of countless evils; heavy, relentless rain had a habit of reducing the land to slop, and the six-wheeled carriers had, themselves, a habit of churning up the wet wilderness when chugging along at a pace many could just outrun. Of course, moving on foot was never an option, and to move by air was an expensive and oftentimes dangerous game to play -- airships afforded more peace of mind than the ground ever could, but the darkness which stalked high up in the clouds had grown far too efficient at downing humanity's dreams of flight. So, then, the Imperial Mistral Freight Company moved by land vehicle at a comfortable and consistent crawl through the worst the continent had to offer, and the wounded soldier, with no other alternative, moved with it. The work had to be done. He had a family to provide for. Dearest Zenobia worked damn hard, herself, but for the two of them and young Alexandros it was just shy of enough to live comfortably. It ate away at the one-eyed man on each and every delivery, just as surely as the others in Unit Nine had their own grievances.[break]
Grievances, of course, were dangerous. Deadly, even. Negativity was what called out to the Creatures of Grimm like a great and terrible siren, so it was often better for the sake of everyone to lie. Not to one another, of course- no, to themselves; it was smarter -- not wiser, and never healthier -- to just bottle up every dismaying and languishing thought before it had gained the purchase required to really do its damage. The crew of Unit Nine had become frighteningly efficient at saying that everything was alright. Hell, they almost believed it. The Grimm didn't -- for them it was probably extra flavour and excitement before a kill.[break][break]

See, that was the worst part of it all.[break[break]

Grimm weren't stupid.[break]
Bestial and hyper-aggressive, certainly, but they were clever. They could always find what they needed, and what they wanted, and then find some way to get it.[break][break]

The Skouriá patriarch was a former soldier, after all, so he knew it all too well: anywhere the War went, the Grimm were sure to follow. It wasn't some mysterious or unknown outside force... no, the Creatures of Grimm were an ever-present guarantee -- a promise that the world was never going to heal. Not really; not enough to matter. Even in such supposed peacetime nobody was really safe from the foul things, and the risk grew exponentially with even a single dark thought. Dark thoughts were something of a specialty for those who went back and forth between the comfort of the cities and the hell they stood proud inside of. Dark thoughts -- all damning and dangerous -- were best kept in bottles, where they were safe and sound.[break][break]

All that was left was for one of those bottles to break, and all of the tiredness and hate and sorrow shoved inside to cascade forth like a wave of ill omen. All that was left was for the convoy to falter in its journey. All that was left was some cruel joke by fate.[break]
All that was left for the leading truck to break down, and for that signal flare to streak through the sky with bright red smoke trailing behind it.[break][break]

Then, only the Grimm. Only monsters, on all sides, coming from the shadows.[break]
There was never any doubt that it would end that way.[break]
Only chaos; that's all that was left.[break]
No men, no workers;[break]
just beasts.[break][break]

Leo Skouriá would die that day. All of Unit Nine would.

The thought of his father's last moments played out as a borrowed and broken memory which was never his to know; a life -- and so many others with it -- reduced to nothing in the blink of an eye. Bodies torn apart, powerless to fight back despite even the most violent of futile protests, made to suffer for the sick pleasure of Remnant's wandering infection. His knuckles had gone some awful ghostly shade of white, with all the colour and life draining from the rest of him. His grip released at long last, and Alex made a great effort to keep himself upright as dread and despair were beginning to press their weight upon him in a way not felt for some time. Amber eyes had gone vacant, gaze just as hollow, and his mouth was just so very-slightly propped open by shock. It was a familiar expression, though one which the young Skouriá had gone to great lengths to keep hidden from the prying eyes of other people; this particular breed of sadness was for him, and him alone. Yet here, it was most obvious, most open, and most overt, and the hunter-to-be was powerless to reel the feelings back in where they belonged. Back into his own bottle, deep inside under lock and key.[break]
It felt like forever had gone by. Alexandros shook his head, and let out an equally shaky sigh. Tears were coming, and there would be no stopping them.[break][break]

It wasn't easy.[break]
Not just this moment, of course, but this life. Huntsmen and huntresses weren't happy people. This 'career', such as it was, was one best defined by thankless altruism and the despair it seemed to bring in exchange. It wasn't easy at all.[break][break]

True strength, huh? the boy wondered in a moment of introspection. Yes, that had been what Qiu'li was searching for -- hell, it was probably his singular reason for wandering the world as he had. It was a broad and infinitely deep question which 'truthfully' would hold no satisfying answer for those who posed it. A life, and the experience which constituted a life, was much too unpredictable and much too unique as a result: a personality was far too personal, and the proposition of the existence of one 'true strength' far too grand for the small souls which had to answer it. Then again, maybe it wasn't about any single answer... no, maybe it was the journey and not its eventual destination which called out to that raven-haired youth from Vale; maybe the uncertainty and theoretical pointlessness of it all was, itself, the point. Alex thought for a moment longer, back to the initiation, about the comfort of the campsite's fireside where the question was first thrown at him.[break]
Whatever true strength was, it didn't matter: Qiu'li wouldn't find it.[break][break]

And so, hesitating no longer, Alexandros took hold of the pen with one hand and slid away his tears on a thumb with the other. As thoughtful and equally as careful as the boy could make himself be, a short message was written and signed in a lower corner of the open pages, then stamped with a salty brand of sadness bearing the shape of the weeping one's thumbprint; it was a strange gesture by which to remember the fallen, but one the murderous monk may well have appreciated for its simplicity and honesty. Alex set the pen down and moved away, fast, to the other side of the room and to an open seat. All at once his body gave out beneath him, and Alexandros near-collapsed into the chair, throwing both hands up to his face and running them through his hair in some urgent attempt to calm down; it was no use. With speed and fluidity unexpected of one in such a state, the prospective huntsman collapsed back forward and rested both elbows on his knees to cradle his head in open hands still glued to his head, and made no further effort to keep his composure. Now, truly sobbing, he rejected the outside world for only a moment, and focused hard on his last words to the departed.[break][break]

I'll find the answer.[break]
-A. Skouriá

[break]

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2856/2856 WORDS

[attr="class","lovemad1"]@tag

soul pain

PHARAOH LEAP CREATES

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[Doctor Yuki Haragitanai]

[nospaces]

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It was always interesting to see how different cultures treated their dead. Some viewed it as a time of great sorrow, the appropriate time to remain somber and shed tears for the ones that were no longer there. For others, death was a release from pain. From suffering and an opportunity to attain rest. To return back from whence one came, and the collective hope that their loved ones would, too, join them eventually. A select few view death as a stepping stone towards a greater purpose. Whatever it was, Doctor Haragitanai was more in favor of the former of the three. Perhaps its her own upbringing that brought her to act in such as way, but being reserved about it was definitely her default state. It wasn't like she was heartless or anything, but she wasn't exactly the type to bawl her eyes out either.
[break]
[break]
Death was common in her field of work. Not everyone can be saved- she had to live with the burdens of the ones that she saves, as well as the ones that she didn't. The only salvation she got from it was knowing that at the very least, those that she was able to save would be able to live another day. The pain of it wasn't any less painful, however, knowing that she couldn't save anyone. It was a naive thought, especially for many bright eyed individuals who go out expecting to make a difference.
[break]
[break]
The reality was, not everyone can be saved. However, at the end of the day if you can save yourself, you've had at least done some good.
[break]
[break]
Living meant being able to continue helping others. Living meant being able to reflect on your actions, learn from those that didn't, and push onward with that knowledge in order to prevent others from meeting the same fate.
[break]
[break]
Doctor Haragitanai stood against the back end of the room that was being used as a memorial. The two pictures of the victims displayed were glinting in the artificial light as students took turns going up to each and writing a small note before returning to their seats. There were some she recognized, others that she didn't. Who knew that there were so many that were impacted by the actions of both of these individuals.
[break]
[break]
Qiu'li was someone that Doctor Haragitanai had touched on briefly. During the early admissions when she tried to compile all the students data, she recalled his manner of speaking. Brief, curt, and few. Much like many of the other students here, but the main difference was that there was a significant language barrier between the two of them during their first encounter. It was a bizarre situation, like, who would even think to recruit someone that didn't speak the common language fluently? Well, not like it really mattered. His skill was exemplary, and at the end of the day, he eventually managed to adapt to his surroundings well enough to not only survive, but thrive.
[break]
[break]
Unfortunately, some probably saw him as a wolf in sheeps clothing; masquerading as someone who behaved like a proper human being but turned out to be an insidious killer on the inside. That much is inevitable, and frankly Doctor Haragitanai didn't have a particular comment on it. All clues point towards that conclusion, and there are few, if any, arguments for the opposition.
[break]
[break]
In part, Doctor Haragitanai had some backlash recently as a result of this. Why couldn't the Administration be able to screen out a killer like that? Why didn't they mark him down with red flags? It was probably obvious, etc. Admittedly, a lot of these accusations towards her were legitimate while others ridiculous. How could they expect one person to be able to screen every single student for red flags of being a potentially unstable serial killer? On the flip side, if she had done something about it, would an event like Rochdale have happened? Thinking about the 'what-ifs' are what drive people mad, and Doctor Haragitanai decided not to waste the mental capacity to do so. If anything, she saw this as a lesson to consider for the future.
[break]
[break]
Her gaze shifted to the one in red. His matted, black hair shone though without his glasses, and frankly, he looked a lot better without them. Huh. Doctor Haragitanai recalled their first encounter with each other. It ended with both of them throwing very passive aggressive comments each other, which quickly launched their relative hostility towards each other. Neither saw their medical practices as legitimate, and they spent hours arguing with each other when either stepped on the others foot. It was irritating seeing his face every day, with that stupid sneer of his. Each and every single day tormented by that black haired fucker who thought it was so funny to pull people into his whimsical pranks. She couldn't even count the times that she told him to drop dead as his ass hobbled out of the infirmary.
[break]
[break]
Now...
[break]
[break]
He wasn't there anymore. His past caught up to him, and here they were, left with nothing.
[break]
[break]
Did he win in the end? Was this the outcome that she wanted? Doctor Haragitanai grimaced and rubbed her head. No, it wasn't like anyone could have anticipated it. A matter of time and circumstance really. Regardless, it was still an emptying feeling to know that someone that was a constant presence, even if it was an annoying one, was suddenly no longer there.
[break]
[break]
Perhaps there was nothing they could have done for him. He spent all this time in secrecy, and in the end, he paid the price for his past actions that nobody would have known about. If anything, this would hopefully serve as a lesson for many.
[break]
[break]
Actions have consequences. Even the most insignificant ones can led to a unexpected consequence down the line.
[break]
[break]
There wasn't much else for her to do here. She had a lot of paperwork left to handle back in the infirmary. Apparently it got completely trashed while she was gone, and the Doctor had to assess the damage. Not to mention, she had to get started on cleaning up the place to move onto her next objective: taking a proactive step in helping the student body by offering counseling sessions. At the very least, she could do to help those that needed it, and protect herself from future backlash.
[break]
[break]
But first..
[break]
[break]
She needed a smoke break.
[break]
[break]

[attr="class","dangerfoot"]

[attr="class","dangertag"]
Word Count: 1072

[attr="class","dangernotes"]
Additional Notes: Hope your smug ass is resting somewhere.

[attr="class","dangercredits"]cyan of pixel perfect

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[Carmim Clover]

❝ AURA: 90% WORDS: 452 | TWC: 2386 Oh no. No, no, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, not her. Anyone but her. Her heart stopped, and she nearly fell over again, as she froze in place, in front of Eva, tear-streaked black ash still smeared across her face, framing the widest, most paint-stricken eyes she'd ever worn. She couldn't handle this. She wanted to hug her best friend, to comfort her, tell her that everything was okay, that everything would be okay. But it wasn't. It wouldn't be. She really couldn't do this. Eva whispered her name, a question, soft and pleading, but as agonizing as a knife to the chest, twisting and writhing as it burrowed through her soul. Her feet were lead, and if they weren't, the blonde, only a hair's width taller than her, stood like an impenetrable fortress guarding the door. She had to leave. She needed to leave. The violin fell, and with it, Carmim's heart, straight past her chest, through her stomach, and out through her feet. She had to leave. Needed to leave. She blinked back fresh tears, as Eva stared expectantly at her. What was she supposed to do? What could she do? Did she know? No... She couldn't know. She couldn't. There was no way. She didn't want to be the one to tell her. It would destroy her. It would destroy both of them. She couldn't do it. Couldn't manage it. Her breathing was tight, and she realized she was on the verge of hyperventilating. She closed her eyes and desperately counted to ten, hoping like hell that when she opened them again, Eva would be gone, and she wouldn't have to- No. Eva was still there. She couldn't stay, had to leave, she needed to leave. She couldn't- "Eva... I..." She didn't even feel her feet as they started to move on their own accord, trying their hardest to swerve around the Atlesian girl. She didn't make it far- that kind of agility, without her drum to balance her? She hit the floor for the second time that day. Far harder than the first time. It didn't deter her, as she scrambled to stand again, this time slipping on the smooth tiled floor, smacking her head against it again, as she struggled to stand up. She was barely even beginning to make it onto her knees again, when she felt a hand reach out to help her up. It only triggered horrific memories of the way that tortured man's hand had reached out at her, in his futile attempt to escape. Right before- Half-spoken, half-sobbed, "I am sorry... I am so... So sorry, Eva..." Why couldn't the nightmare end already?

LAIKA OF GS!

[Jay]

XP Distribution:

Carmim Clover: 23 XP
825 + 23 = 848

Doctor Yuki Haragitanai: 10 XP
15 + 10 = 25

Alexandros Skouriá: 28 XP
127 + 28 = 155

Evangeline Lys de Verre: 10 XP
461 + 10 = 471

Meng Long: 13 XP
106 + 119

106 + 13 = 119