forum can you blame me for wishing to be holy // oxo // closed!!

Started Jan 11 by @larcenistarsonist group

tune

She had it all–

She had it all.

But it was ripped from her. All of it wrongly stolen as she was exiled and forced to watch the slaughter of her closest comrades–

Wandering the city, eating from trash and knowing her divine body won't allow her to develop illness, she staggers on. She trips over her own feet, her once angelic features eroding to frighting elements of what she used to be. Eventually her sorry joints can't take it anymore and she collapses.

She's found, hardly conscious, by some compassionate soul.

basically i have a character i love dearly and i want to flesh her out more :) basically it's something akin to a fallen angel x human rp but it's not exactly that and we'll get into it morein the rp :)

my rules are basically don't be dick, be literate, have responses that are at least a paragraph, uhhh i can ask for a sample and refuse! that's all basically!

we can do templates or not! i think it might be fun to jump in without them :3

From all sides, the city screeches. The factories down in the south still thrum with life despite all the workers being sent home for the night. Up in the northeast, the wealthy host parties and events in their glass penthouses, watching the ants below scuttle into cabs and into their high rise apartments. Over in the west, there are circling highways, a tangled bunch of on-ramps and exits leading to and fro the bustling urban metropolis. Even in the sky, there's nothing that the corruption of the modern man hadn't touched, blocking out the starlight with their streetlamps and flashing billboards. It reeks of lost opportunity and dead-end paths, with only the lucky few obtaining enough to support themselves in the capitalistic hell of a landscape. Even the river that bubbles through the heart of the utopia glows a sickly color, reflected off the skyscrapers of metal and glass. None of the flowers along the riverbed are native, planted solely for their aesthetic and color with no regard to the wildlife that struggles to survive against the oppression of the elite.

The people of this luminescent city laugh away their pain, accumulating in sweaty hubbubs to drink and dance and forget about their worries with the common day vice. Near the west end, buried beneath an overpass out of town, a series of narrow paths with hole-in-the-wall clubs and bars known only as the Shot Pit roars with blinking strobes and thrums with ground-shaking music. People in minimal, sparkling clothing grind and swing and hold strangers close, but one woman struggles to get away from it all.

Lit by the neon glow of the wretched alley, a woman stumbles along her way. To any passing soul, she appears nothing more than an every day drunk. Stringy hair from too much dancing, bloodshot eyes from the inhaled drugs. She hacks into her hand and wipes the scarlet blood away on her tattered pant leg. She lost her shoes long ago, what remains of her filthy button-up doing little to protect the gruesome scars lacerating her back. With every labored breath, she tries to step, leaning against the wall and praying that eventually this misery will all end. No matter what she drinks, her body does not contract illness. No matter how long she takes between meals, her soul refuses to give way. Cursed to live and wander amongst the mortal, she trudges along.

It could've been hours, maybe even sheer minutes, but the woman eventually finds her way out of the Shot Pit, considering herself lucky that nobody dared to stop and chat. There's nothing she despises more on this dreary world than small talk. Superficial, unnecessary, so entirely shallow it only reminds her of the relationships that had been stolen from her. She coughs again, slumping against the wall as she slides against it, not even caring as the jagged brick scratches and slices against the delicate fabric of her porcelain skin. The Shot Pit quiets behind her as she drags herself to the residential area. Sheer exhaustion racks every bone of her body, her mind hardly sharp enough to find a rhyme or reason to her lethargic actions.

When her knees finally give way, the woman crawls to a bench and lays beneath it, the sickly blonde of her hair draped across the disgusting sidewalk as she uses her forearm for a pillow. If she's fortunate, she'll awaken undisturbed and with a new energy that the cruel sun grants her with every morn. Maybe, if she's fortunate, she'll sleep staring at the gutter across the road and never awaken to see an automobile pass again. Ribs aching and stuttering with every breath, the woman closes her eyes and wets her lips with a dry tongue. Sleep takes her with a gentle malice.

(ok! so im thinking your character will just find her beneath the bench snoozing and they're like "??? you arent supposed to be here" and we go from there!)

The entire floor was void of people. Most of the staff at the publishing company had left. Only two desk lamps were lit. One in the boss's office and one diagonally across the boss's door on a desk with a backpack sitting on top of it. The office printer was humming as it made copies. Once it beeped, a woman walked over from the boss's office to pick up the stack of paper. Her heels made a faint thud as she strutted back. The second the papers were dropped on the corner of the desk, a smile swept across her face. Finally, she could go home.

The woman slipped on her coat and backpack. She hummed a tune while playing with her lanyard. At the door, she had to scan her ID in order to lock it. Her office ID read: Milena Darzi. A soft smile appeared as she made her way to the elevator. Never was there a sound more sat than the ding or the elevator doors opening.

Getting off the elevator was always a rewarding experience. It didn't matter what was happening next. It didn't matter where one was going. Milena enjoyed the feeling of the elevator going doing as she leaned against the wall while changing her burgundy heels into black flats. She could wear her heels till she got to her apartment, yet she always packed her flats in her backpack. Not that she hated work or anything. Work was work. Four days a week she comes in, meets with authors, attends a meeting or two, reviewing drafts, and helping her boss. All the while she could listen to her specifically curated playlists through her headphones.

Walking home was always rewarding for her. She only ever took the bus if weather was terrible. Every time she home, she liked to look into all the venues that were alive at night. Every single bar or club playing songs at max volume while people in and outside were drinking. If it were any other night, she would have walked into one of those bars or clubs just to have a drink or two. Usually the young woman was walking home with either her work friend, Lilith, or their manager, Cillian, but they both left way before she did. She only stayed late so she wouldn't have to worry about getting there so early and preparing for the monthly reviews.

At least she got it done. Now Milena strolled along the sidewalk, getting closer and closer to her apartment. While approaching the crosswalk, she noticed a bench nearby. The bench itself wasn't what caught her attention. From what little lighting the nearest lamp post was providing, she could tell that something was underneath it. She hesitantly took a step towards it and then decided to take another.

It was a person. From what she could guess, maybe a woman around her age. She wasn't sure. Milena was only twenty-five. Again, she took one more step till she was able to crouch down next to this passed out person. This isn't right. She shouldn't let some person who's probably drunk and also sleeping under a bench there alone. "Hey you, my friend," She said while gently shaking the person's arm, "Come on, wake up."

The woman doesn't sleep–at least, not how she's supposed to. Instead of falling, it's a drift, which she supposes she should at least be thankful for. She's had enough of falling for a lifetime. Maybe even a handful of them. However, the paralysis that occasionally overtakes her is enough to bring her screeching back to the horrifying night only two months before–the night where she truly lost it all. She always wakes up exhausted and disgusting from those nights, her tattered clothes sticking to her skin and scalp itching as the echo of the voices ebb away.

The freezing paralysis does not come. Instead, she's woken gently with a hand on her shoulder. Her alarming blue eyes fly open, dazed as she has to register where she had fallen asleep this time. When her vision clears to a shockingly sober state, she studies the woman leaning over her. The woman beneath the bench closes her eyes again and rolls onto her back instead of her side, which she immediately clocks as a horrible idea. Through the slits in the iron bar bench, she's able to make out that she had not even rested for more than an hour. The moon is prominent in the center of the sky, nearly mocking as the clouds stay pointedly away from her glow. The woman still has until sunrise for her vigor to be renewed, leaving her in this pathetic state… sickeningly vulnerable. If my father could see me now, she practically curses in her mind.

The woman still stands beside her, clearly not leaving at any time soon without proper reason. "I'm alright," she manages, but the rasp in her voice betrays her. "I'm not intoxicated. Just leave me be." Forget you saw me like this. Forget you saw me at all. She wishes she could just turn one more quarter to face away from the intruder, but the sharp pain that surges through the lacerations etched into her back momentarily shocks her, teeth gritting and lips twisting into a wounded grimace. They're likely infected by now… well, she can't really have that. Perhaps the disease that corrupted her damn soul has finally began to eat away at her immunity. If she's progressed that far into her ailment maybe it'll take her heart next. Maybe she's finally looking at the end in sight, not nearly as terrifying and exponentially more disappointing than she had dreamt it. The wince eventually fades, but the pain still lingers in her eyes as she waits for the mercy of the sun.

Her hand slightly hovered over the woman's arm. As much as she was concerned for this person, Milena didn't want to be overexcessive with the concern. She didn't want to overstep a boundary that might put anyone in any trouble. Her dark eyes squinted as she tried to get a better at this woman. Frail was the first thing that came to mind. This person needed help one way or another. Those blue eyes that looked at her read exhaustion. There was no use in wondering who, what, when, where, or why, this person needed help. Now.

I'm alright. Yeah, she didn't believe it. All she could do was purse her lips. Milena's dad taught her that usually when someone says that they're fine, they're not. Sometimes one can just say okay then move on, but she didn't want to move on from this. This woman could not just shrug her shoulders, get up, and walk away to her comfy and warm apartment. And sure, she didn't want to be bothering this person at the same time. Technically it's not her business. On the other hand, she found this person under the bench. It's late, it's cold, and it's painstakingly obvious that this woman needs help. Plus, she was sure there was some type of cuts on the woman's back that need to be treated.

Gently, she shook the woman's shoulder again. "No, I'm not leaving you alone," She stated, "I'm going to force you out of there and you're coming with me to my apartment where we can get you taken care of." In the corner of her eye, she glanced down the street. It's only a few more blocks. Looking back at the person, she sighed, "My name's Milena Darzi. I'm 25 and I work at a small publishing company and I promise you that I'm not a weirdo or a perv or anything. I am really good at cooking ramen and chicken noodle soup from scratch." Frankly she had no idea where that last bit came from, but she felt the need to say something to convince this person to come with her.

"Look, we can do this two different ways. Either A: You get yourself out of there and I help you by pulling or B: I carefully drag you out of there." Milena rolled her eyes at her choice of the word "carefully." As she spoke, she delicately placed her two hands on top of the woman's arm. "I will do it. I'm not one to back down. If you don't move in the next few seconds, I'm getting you outta there myself."

The woman stares, trying to comprehend what the other–Milena–is trying to get across. Without the sun, the drowsy woman knows that her strength is dwindling, that she won't be able to get out from underneath her hiding place without assistance. But she doesn't need assistance. She's just fine on her own, without any of the pestering of this Milena figure. Her past and manners not yet completely abandoned, the woman swallows the pain in her throat. "I thank you for your concern, but it is misplaced. Find some other sorry soul to nurture." She supposes she could give her name, but what she had been called is a woman who died with her comrades. The Judge. Hell, what's a Judge without her Court? As for the name she was born with, it pains her to even try to remember it, the syllables long lost within the fog of her mind.

"What's wrong with me is none of your business," she bites, suddenly annoyed with herself with the disclosed information that something is indeed very wrong with her. "I'll heal." And she will… just not until the sun rises, and there's no promise of her wounds actually closing in the day's duration. Who's to say that she won't just continue to rot in her ugly, gilded, abominable state? Curse her disease, curse her exile, curse her devastating loneliness. In an effort to mask the pain in her icy blue eyes, she closes them and measures her breath. The lacerations and deep wounds ache as she lays on them, but the energy to move. The hands upon her arm burn, searing warmth against the chill of her flesh. "I always heal," she murmurs, but the firmness in her voice is waning.

What happens next, not even she can remember. With the sun fully hidden and the moon hanging in the center of the sky, she can't muster the energy to do anything. Her eyes eventually roll back, her posture slackens and her thoughts fade away as the exhaustion of the day overtake her. The last thing she registers before the darkness closes in are the warm eyes of Milena Darzi.

"Look, I-" She had no clue what to say. Was she forcing herself in this woman's business? Her hands collapsed onto the side of her leg. While lowering her head, she started to pick at her black skirt. "You're not a sorry soul, but you do need help, that's for sure." Milena pushed away a strand of black hair as she looked back at the woman.

The person had a point. It's not Milena's business at all. She could just get up and go home without any consequences. Honestly, she could have left. One of the easiest things she could do is leave. Whatever happens to the woman is not really her concern. Sadly, Milena was taught otherwise. The wellbeing of others is as much of a concern as her's, especially if they're in a dangerous situation where they do need help. She could do something and that potential, that action, could be meaningful. This person in front of her was hurt.

"Heal…" Milena let out a long exhausted exhale at the word. Believe her, she used to think the same thing time and time again. Who doesn't? Everyone has their own Icarus moment before realizing that it takes a little more than just self-perseverance to get better or get over something. This way of thinking is dangerous as much as it can be helpful. In this case it was harmful and definitely not convincing for her.

Her eyes widened when she noticed that the woman was passing out. An alarm in her brain went off. She lightly tapped on the one cheek to get her to wake up. "Come on…come on…don't do this…" She murmured. After doing this, she decided that was that. Fuck it. On her knees, Milena began to carefully pull the person out. She tried to lift her up a little with each pull so the person wouldn't get scrapes from the sidewalk. It felt like forever because she wanted to be as cautious as possible.

Once the woman was out laying on the sidewalk, Milena sat her up. She put her jacket on her as well as her flats. Even though it'd make it hard for her to walk while supporting an unconscious person, she changed back into her heels. Milena pulled her up, wrapping the woman's arm around her then began to slowly towards the apartment building. The whole time she kept muttering encouraging phrases to ignore the worries of dropping the woman or both of them.

Glassy, her eyes remain open yet there's nothing behind them as she's carefully pulled from under the bench. Her blonde hair. once shiny and strong had long lost its luster, accumulating grease near her scalp and hairline. Her lips unconsciously part with the movement, revealing her startlingly straight teeth that accompany a beautiful smile, but she hasn't had much of a reason to as of late. In her paralyzed, unconscious state, the woman allows herself to be dragged down the block and to a small apartment complex.

The time so late, the sun so far, her mind drifts and wanders, falling far, far away from her corporal form. They take her to her past, to the gleaming city from which she came. They take her to her fall, where she was cast out for contracting an illness she should've known how to avoid. They take her to the dreaded alley in which the Champion found her and her friends, not sparing a single drop of blood from the prowess of their blade.

When her mind finally returns to her body, she notes the time near sunrise. She's on a small couch, a blanket tossed over her form. She rubs at her eyes as she sits up, relishing in the painless stretch she can accomplish with the rising of the sun. The lacerations on her back knit shut, her bruises fade, her eyes gain some of the sharp intelligence that got her into this mess in the first place. The first thought that runs through her mind is her own name, which is nice considering she couldn't even remember it the night before. Isadora, she repeats it once, twice, and then a third time just to be sure it won't slip anytime soon. Your name is Isadora. She pushes the blanket off of her lap and takes in the small apartment cluttered around her. She inventories what she can, claims any threat, and finds the window.

Isadora wastes no time standing on her renewed legs and walking to the window, pulling open the blinds and basking in the dawn. She pulls her hair back and ties it messily on top of her head and, for a moment, she looks far more put together than she has in a very long time.

Milena's apartment was small, but she loved it. Seriously. The only thing she hated was the fact that she was not allowed to paint the white walls. Even then, she overcame this by hanging up old movie posters, pictures of family, friends, and memories, and some floating book shelves. She had lightstips on the top and bottom of the walls so she wouldn't have to use the overhead lights. And her dads had given her some succulents to put around the place. It's not like her dream Gossip girl apartment she wished to have when she was thirteen yet it was enough.

Her high heels were still in the same corner she kicked them into in her bedroom. That was the first thing she did after carefully laying the woman down on her sofa. She grabbed the first aid kit from the bathroom then did what she could to sew up the lacerations and take care of everything else. Then when she was all done, she laid a floral blanket on top to keep her guest warm. She leaned against the wall for a bit to see if the woman was sleeping okay. While she did that, she texted Cillian she would working from home the next day. He just sent her back a thumbs up emoji.

Honestly she couldn't remember what she did from then to when her alarm went off. Hearing her phone vibrated against the nightstand always made her jump out of bed. Milena groaned as she hit the off button on the screen. Grabbing the green hair clip next to her phone, she put her hair up in this haphazard bun then strolled out of the room.

Only a few steps out of the room and she gasped. The woman who she found last night was not the same as the one who was standing in the living room. While the shock was there, Milena softly smiled. Thank God she was okay. She was unsure how the woman seemed to have gotten better over night, but she was grateful that she did.

"Are you alright?" She asked while strolling into the kitchen. "I can make some tea for us. My baba sent me this box of black tea that's really good. I'll make some breakfast, but I want to get the kettle going."

Isadora, of course, hears the soft footsteps approach before Milena Darzi even makes a noise. She keeps her gaze firmly out the window, following the arc of the new sun and gauging quietly how much longer she has before she begins to rot. Her hands, trained out of any nervous tick, are clasped behind her straight back, now that she's at her tallest instead of curled beneath a public bench, it's clear that Isadora stands well over six feet tall with a strong, corded, muscular build rippling beneath her pale skin. The morning light casts sharp shadows against her high cheekbones and strong jawline, pronouncing her sharp brows and platinum hair. Humans call her sort of beauty ethereal, which Isadora supposes is true. 

When Milena Darzi speaks, Isadora carefully turns to look at her, startlingly blue eyes studying her frame. "Tea?" she repeats, allowing the morning fogginess to fall away and for the newfound clarity to remind her what exactly tea is. Warm beverage. Made from leaves or other plants. Occasionally medicinal. Well, not like the medicinal properties could do anything to heal her. "If you are already making some." She nods and steps away from the window. "And I am alright. I told you last night that I always heal." Only to rot again by sunset, but Isadora leaves that part out. Melina Darzi will see soon enough, that is, if Isadora doesn't find an excuse to leave by then. She stretches her shoulders back, noting the slight itch that occurs just to the sides of the center of her spine. She wrinkles her nose as she notes the decaying process has already begun for the day. If she's lucky, the wounds won't reopen until evening.

"I need the sun," Isadora continues, knowing that little are satisfied with such meager information. "Every morn it… revitalizes me, but as it sets, my power wanes until I am nothing more than… than a rotting corpse." She swallows and looks back out the window. While she hadn't disclosed much, she still fears that she may say too much. She may say too much and they may come again and Isadora isn't ready for that. She has selfishly hoped that she'll be dead before she's ready. "I apologize that you wasted your time and energy bringing me here." For she should have been left. Isadora should have been left beneath the filthy bench to wallow in her own self-inflicted misery. After all, isn't the point of her exile to stew in agony, in hell. In her pit of isolated despair with unprecedented responsibility still looming over her shoulder, yet how can she even be expected to thwart such expectation if she's been stripped of her might, her power, anything holy about her?

She shakes her head. It's far too early in the morning to be spiraling so deep.

Milena leaned forward against the counter with wide eyes. There were so many things she wanted to ask this stranger who was standing across from her in her apartment. Like what's the deal with always healing? Why was she laying underneath a bench last night? And did she say something about rotting? It wasn't a complete lie that she didn't find the woman odd, then again "odd" can be subjective. And the fact that she found her underneath a bench is not the odd part.

Sometimes she found it impossible that the perfect human or being or whatever existed. Everything and everyone holds some sort of imperfection. The woman across from her seemed to not have any, physically at least. To Milena, she was perfect. Everyone woman was gorgeous to her, but this woman standing in front of her is something along the lines of ethereal. In a way, it was unbelievable that the woman was the same as the one she met last night. How someone could get better so quickly was a miracle.

Her jaw hung open. It slowly closed while she stared off into the distance. Then as she shook her head, she said, "It's fine…It's fine." Her hair swooshed as she turned around to grab the kettle from the counter. Lifting the lid, she placed the thing under the sink and began to fill it with water. "No need to apologize, I've wasted time a million times already. Last night was not a waste of time."

She lightly tapped her fingers against the edge of the counter to the beat of a song in her head. The water slowly filled up the kettle. Once it reached a certain point, she turned off the faucet. "By the way, I wasn't able to catch your name last night." Milena sat the kettle on top of the stove. As she turned the heat on, she looked over her shoulder at the woman, "What's your name?"

Isadora watches as the mortal woman quickly scuttles to her kitchen to put on a spot of tea. She's… not nearly as large as Isadora, who had been small for one of her kind. Isadora is well over six-feet tall with broad shoulders and rippling muscle–well, at least in the first hours of day. She towers over most men and could easily best them. She is not one of them. She never will be. It's only a matter of time before her people realize their mistake and come to retrieve her. Maybe one day she'll be able to regain her wings of feather and blood instead of dealing with her forged ones of rust and steel. (She can't even remember where she deposited her invented wings. Maybe the answer will come to her the next morning.)

"Hm?" Isadora zones back in when the woman, when Milena, turns around to ask her something. "My name is Isadora," she answers, finding how odd it is to say instead of her accustomed Judge. She's no longer a Judge. No court, no Jury, no Executioner. "And you–" she points carefully. "Are Milena Darzi." She lives alone in this small apartment and works at a… publishing company, whatever that may be. She also walks home alone late at night, which is hardly a wise idea granted she lives in such close proximity to that disgusting pit of alcohol and drugs. It's practically an invitation for disaster. She never minded the thought of herself becoming a victim. (She heals.) She's worried about such a fragile mortal having to live with such events. "You shouldn't walk home alone when it is so late." Isadora is at her weakest when the moon is at its highest. Not even she would be able to protect Milena Darzi's kind soul in such a rotten state.

"Isadora…How beautiful," She smiled while looking over her shoulder. It reminded her of some fantasy character you would find in a video game or a book. Thankfully she knew Isadora's name. Last night she went through all the names she knew trying to figure out which one it could have been. Out of the several that came to mind, somehow Isadora was not one of them. A beautiful name for a beautiful person. When the tall woman said her name, Milena softly laughed. Honestly, it was a bit surprising that Isadora remembered her name. In the state the woman was in, she did not expect much. Maybe she should have given this person a little more credit. "Yes, that's me, but you can call me Milena if you want. No need for formalities."

While she waited for the water to boil, she went on her tippy toes to look for two mugs. One had a raven dressed up as Edgar Allen Poe on it and the other was of the whale from Moby Dick. Most of them were pushed far back so she picked the first two close by. After setting them down, Milena looked over at Isadora. She was right. Where the apartment building was not the best. Sure there was the convenience of being near work, the subway, and a bunch of other places, but someone always walked her home. Not to forget the fact she always carried a small taser.

Milena sighed, "I know. Usually I don't work so late and my work friend or manager usually walk me home, but it's okay. I appreciate your concern, Isadora."