✧

❝

bite patterns aren't that accurate for legal evidence but / i'm tellin' you that the skin / don't forget

❞

you have been running for as long as you can remember, chasing some godsforgotten dream. ( chasing your own tail, like a dog hell-bent on consuming itself raw. )you don't know how else to live.( ONCE, IN THE BEFORE—ONCE, WHEN THERE WAS SOMEONE WHO WOULD KEEP A LIGHT ON FOR YOU—THERE WAS A TIME YOU PRESSED YOUR HEAD TO THEIR KNEE AND CLOSED YOUR EYES. ONCE, BEFORE—NO LONGER. )

there's a mania in you: you are your father's son, and his rage haunts you like some dead thing that drags itself ( shambling. oozing. reeking. ) to your feet, exhaling its putrid horror. ( there's a reason you bite. there's a reason you starve—there must be a reason. )... so you let it be. ( you're too tired otherwise, the dark circles that underline your eyes carved into your skin. )might as well be some kinda' strange horror—some kinda' hunger instead of a boy. some kinda' monster-thing instead of a boy—you have no other choice.

muse and mun are both 21+ ! would prefer to write with those who are also 21+; please be warned that august includes themes of hedonism, drugs, substance abuse, and addiction.

general writing and roleplay etiquette apply. ooc does not equal ic ! the opinions and actions of my character do not correlate with my own views.

you have my permission to harm my character however you'd like, so long as there is no godmodding or metagaming involved ! in fact, acts of violence are welcome.

feel free to ask for my 🌙 code !

always a yes to pre-established relationships, long-form roleplay, and questlines + campaigns ! always feel free to hit me up if you see me hanging around somewhere !

i'm quite fond of continuous & plotted roleplay—if you're interested in a particular hook or have an interest in making a connection with august, please let me know !

― eyes

pitch-dark & fathomless, despite the vivid green that inks his gaze. half-lidded, shadowed by thick lashes & framed with dark circles.glittering like an animal in the near-dark, pupils shrunken into slits ( blown wide 'neath the fog of smoke ).distant. intense—as if to sear images into his memories; slow blinks & flickers of wayward gaze. attentive—too much so, even, as if always on alert.

― mirror

dark brows ( furrowed. harsh. ) set above intent eyes, long lashes softening the cut of gaze. scars etched along skin, dragging along sharp jaw and down to the pale of throat.soft waves ( dark & darker ) framing stoic features, monstrous canines flashing in the sliver of the light.lean & muscled, built for stamina—for running long distances. tattoos of great beasts etched into his skin; glowing with aether like another haunting. smells of smoke & thunder.

― mouth

the faintest curl of mouth; lips parted to reveal monstrous canines, the ghost of a smile flitting past before firming into a neutral scowl.cupid's bow softening the slant of his mouth; tongue-tip wetting corners. smoke blooming from between lips and teeth; multicoloured and scented.constantly toying with something between his teeth; oral fixation.

constantly apathetic, an idle indifference to the way he draws smoke to his mouth. finds his enjoyment elsewhere: in wild nights, between a stranger's bedsheets, or in the touch of a pill to tongue. has an extremely high tolerance to medicines and poisons, as a result.

does his duties with diligence; likes the methodology of it all, from the start to the end. attached to his checklists and figures and numbers―dislikes it when people bring chaos in their wake ( intentionally, that is ).

dark circles etched underneath his eyes & a slow, impassive drawl that holds the faintest accent. either too-alert or too-tired, depending on the time of day. oftentimes just too tired.

burn marks scattered across his fingertips from one too many cigarettes; discoloured fingers and slender knuckles. aether is a riotous roil, like thunder over the distance, like the fault-line of the horizon and the lightning that splinters into fifths―tastes like lichtenberg scars.

has a soft spot for those in need, especially for children and animals. gets slightly awkward around displays of vulnerability. earnest, in the only way he knows how to be―a stray dog's forgiveness haunting his bones.

always with a slow-simmering violence; incredibly careful with his movements when he's irritated, as if trying to shackle himself down. easily irritated by people who want to irritate him.

those who are friends,

and those who are foes.

noël delacroix

heir

the favourite to the delacroix crown; tied issk'ir to his side through the means of a favour granted and a favour received. waiting for the next piece to fall.

• carrd

hart

blooded knight

casual companion during the dragonsong war; the two of them worked as retainers to the heir afterwards. they make each other worse.

• npc

rhine riesling

cousin

of the leitner merchant empire. the sun to his shadow; cousin with the same name. he holds no great resentment for rhine, in the end.

• npc

saint

priest

speaks of faith like it's a drowning, like river-swell and dawn-dew; one of the first to find issk'ir, during the war. they are of the same kind, now.

• carrd

― I.

"imagine a wolf," his mother says, "tall and dark and as endless as the sky. the very sight of it blots out the sun," touching at his hair as her lashes lower. "its mouth is red—fresh-kill red, with sinew strung up between its teeth. every day, it prowls around your home; a giant eye lurks at your window, or a too-dark tail slinks from the doorway, and every day, someone new vanishes.""it doesn't concern you. you have learned to live with the wolf. to tame it, even—but all along, you were the one being tamed. you only realize this when it begins to crawl closer and closer and," her fingers tightening slightly in his hair before relaxing. "suddenly, you find the stink of its breath to be nauseatingly close. you find the dried-up crust of drool on your bedsheets. you find bloody pawprints circling around your feet. it wants to eat you.""would you let it?"

― II.

the wolf is in his house. it has always been in his house―stalking around them with the same eyes that he has. he looks into the mirror and mistakes them for his own―he turns the corner and his shadow stretches a mile long, shrouding the house in a too-dark dark. every word from the wolf is a targeted strike: there are things that it wants and there are things that it cannot have. august learns to distinguish between the two.this isn't a fairytale. one day, the wolf unhinges its jaw and demands tribute. august―unbound to false messiahs and hating the way prayer falls like tar from the repetition of his mouth―thinks that it is better to refuse.so he does.so he loses everything.

― III.

the leitner family is known for their fortune; presently, the name leitner is famed for forging its path in textile trade, but few know their true roots in weapons manufacturing. war is lucrative. war is a business that turns the great wheel ‘round, and the leitner name has been emblazoned on history’s bloodiest wars, their mark a gut-wound in earth and memory.shedding their roots as tribal miqo’te before the advent of the third calamity, the family cast away their old gods and ascribed to new beliefs. they forged new weapons in the calamity of fire, selling holy weapons to corrupt churches and rulers alike. the leitner family remained steadfastly neutral, evading those who would seek to hunt them for their skills and those who sought to convert them to a different side.this became tradition. no matter the war, no matter the calamity, the leitners would survive. their wealth and power accumulated and now, they have turned a new leaf.this was the legacy that he lost.

― IV.

... he dislikes people who want things. dislikes people who mistake obsession for love―dislikes, above all, those who take simply because they can. for a brief moment―for one sun-caught moment, the wind in his hair and the hilt of his blade in his hands, he had almost fooled himself: maybe he isn't his father's son. maybe his hands could be gentle―as gentle as the first ray of dawn, as soft as the oriole's song.( you cannot wash out your blood, august. the legacy of your family will forever haunt your footsteps, a shambling thing that drags itself behind your heels. )he tries, and he tries, and he tries all over again―to be the kind of good that his mother had wanted him to be. to be the kind of man who he had wanted to be,but he's so very tired.let him fall to the depths. let no one catch him. let him sink, down, down, down. he doesn't know how to live any other way.

after being forced into exile from the leitner family by his father, august found himself working dirty jobs for anyone who would be willing to give him coin.he quickly learned that morals have no place in the gutters―and pride, even less. you do what you can to survive, regardless.and so he does.

he was picked up and taken in by the captain of the dieci company, a mercenary company that had sworn itself to the good, whatever that might mean. for a time, he almost believed that his own hands could do good.what a joke, to place his trust in the hands of man.after a certain situation, he was framed and terminated from the company.

months pass, and august returns to what he does best: getting his hands filthy. he works for organizations as a contract-killer—a hired sword or a shield, when necessary.the seasons change, and august finds himself moving up ranks; he politely refuses promotions, opting to stay in his role as a simple blade. if there are too many entanglements, he packs his bags and leaves in the dark of the night.that's all he's good for, anyway.

if you're looking for a mark,

and even if you don't have the coin, you need only ask. so long as it's for you, truly—so long as it's an exciting time, he'll be more than happy to assist.

if you're in need of a listening ear,

or even just a drink and a story, find him in any tavern across the source; he'll offer you a grin and a nod and a bottle to drink down.

if you're in need of an adventure,

find him exploring strange crypts and hidden secrets; find him trespassing holy ground and looking for saints. he'll most likely ask you to join him—pretty please? it'll be fun.

if you've any rumours or leads,

or if you're in need of coin, issk'ir will pay a pretty penny for any hint of excitement; bonus points if it's a fair trek away.

if you're familiar with the sacred

and the profane, the name of his faith might ring a bell: the tributary, a splinter-faith that worships the duality of Light and Shadow. or maybe, even, you'd name him a heretic to the twelve.

if you've a library,

or any collection of books or knowledge, do let him know: he's sorely lacking in common sense knowledge, only cruising by solely through virtue of his skills in making bluffs.

if you know ishgardian nobility,

the delacroix family might be familiar to you—either in a positive or negative sense. in older times, the delacroix family dealt in war—in weapons and in fighters. now, they have transitioned to philanthropy; despite this, they still have ties to the underground.

if you're a knight,

you and issk'ir might find something in common—shared memories, perhaps, or a friendship found during the war.