To say that she was simply tired of being alone would be too easy a statement; she genuinely enjoys the company of her manager ( which is a trifle odd in of itself, but considering her workaholic tendencies it shouldn’t be much of a surprise that she adores the man who showers her in constant work any less than she adores the work itself ). Too bad his taste in restaurants was so high-end she knew she’d have to sell her kidney to just breathe the air in that place. ( But he had accepted without an ounce of hesitation and in that she could rejoice and sell her organs later!! )
❛ Yes, of course! ❜ An utter lie, she knows there’s no way to even make it into town that quickly, she doesn’t even own a car. This fib will be debunked within seconds if she can’t find some suave way to wrestle car keys out of someone’s grip… ❛ What do you think of public transportation? ❜ ( She doesn’t have the guts to lie to him, and has already hailed a cab out of sheer luck. Miraculously she’d worn her beautiful, A-line dress in to the shoppe today — perfect. At that mattered now was actually getting into the city. )
❛
Ah… Ah-h-h-h-h…? AH!!
❜ Every uttered noise was punctuated with confused, wild gestures of his hands. He wanted a clip of hair, the littlest braid. Even a snip from the ends would have sufficed. But she lopped off the entire braid with as much pity as a headsman had to attached necks.
Cúchulainn raked his calloused fingers where her mahogany hair had once been on her head and then stared down at what she happily – HAPPILY? – handed him. Snatching the massive braid and short blade, he held it up like a noose. ❛
Morrígan’s great arse, why’d you do that? What–what am I to do with this? Make me a wig? ❜
He grabbed all his hair in the back, nowhere near as impressive, and struck the entire hair-tail off too and thrust his black tresses shining cobalt at her with the gold hair piece, too. (
Fair is fair and he sported this look in his boyhood. )
❛
–––
HERE. Take it and not another word, what ever–no protest. Really… the whole damn thing. ❜ After shoving it firmly in her hands,
Cúchulainn
wrapped her braid like a scarf ‘round his neck and sighed, sorry for the waste.
To his medley of protesting cries, she has not a reply aside from the insistent offering of her chopped braid — going so far as to shake it a few times. She saw no problem with the trade as proposed; there was no shorn pride in the action, all pride had long since been ripped from her breast, leaving behind naught but a vacuous silence unbroken and unsullied by sentiment of any variety ( did she even feel? ) — seizing even words from her tongue and choking her of a truer means for existence than Death. So what was the cutting of her braids to her more than a symbolic shearing of whatever left she had to claim as valuable about herself? ( As if she were more human than a sheep in the first place; she had no right to that. )
But this Vagrant had not anticipated him doing just the same as she.
If there there were a sound it would have been thunderous and strangled, the depths of her despair communicated through dint of slack-of-jaw, widened eyne ( typically bearing nothing less than inscrutable indifference ), flashing teeth and fumbling hands that quake as she receives the tail of hair which, heretofore, had been attached to his head. The gold piece flashes at her — an accusation. No protest? Aye, she durst not protest verbally; but such does not slow the sudden, firm hold of his head ( fingers slinking into his hair nigh apologetically despite the gruffness ), jerking it downwards and — rather feebly, pitifully, even — attempting to re-attach the beautiful length of hair he had just cut from his head. Pushing the golden hair-piece and the pony-tail against the back of his neck a few times, and still a few times more.
❛ HOW COULD YOU?! ❜ she seems to say, oblivious to the fact that she had done something similar, her bob cut fraying upwards and mocking the ruffled feathers of a distressed bird.
❛ …Fine. How ‘bout, I give you a lock–just a lock– and you give me one in return. Your hair’s thicker than the forests. Won’t miss it. ❜
Her hair was a treasure; he loved a maiden fair for her golden hair, once upon a time. He admired openly, all the braids upon braids. But Cúchulainn would not compromise on more than that. A lock for a lock. Generosity, it was. A hand stretched out, expecting her to hand over the blade. ( He’ll cut it himself. No telling if she’d cut off the whole damn thing like she cut cucumbers. )
Her movements thereafter are deft and immediate, the blade glinting in her hand as she twists it within her palm, and — thwack! — the bulk of her braid falls, a bundle so thick when it falls into her other hand, she cannot wrap her fingers around its entirety; intricate braids fan themselves out, unraveling in a slow procession as the Warrior then offers the tied braid ( many smaller braids still intact and woven through it ) out to him, her expression not changed at all.
Once, she had kin with lustrous and vibrant hair — and not a lock so reminiscent of hers would she take without proper exchange; all of her hair was still less than equivalent for a section of his ( iwis! it even glows cobalt in the light and she admires that so fully ).
❛ And what would you do with it? Last woman after my hair wanted to bewitch me. ❜ And that was because she could not get his fingernails. ( Not that he thought Kāl was a witch nor wished him a lover. )
Had she a reply for such a query? Nay, she hadn’t; none that was satisfactory beyond an acute desire. ( His hair was truly a marvel — it reminded her faintly of a sister’s memory, an ill-fated, pretty little thing. ) And so she remains quiet, if contemplative, turning her head to the side whilst her gaze flutters his way from the corner of her eye.
my name is LONESOME and you’re standing on the other side screaming at me, saying it will pass and please come back to yourself and i love you but darling that’s the problem i know i know you love me but you see it’s just not the way i want
my name is I FEEL SO EMPTY and i’m digging through myself, entrails coming away in my hands and blood in my fingernails and bones shattering in my wrists but i cannot find myself and where am i where am i where am i
my name is LET ME RUN and my wrists are steel manacles around my hands and i’m smashing them in an attempt to escape but the screams are caught in my throat and i am caught in my throat and my throat is on fire
my name is NUMBNESS and i’m locked in a white room with nothing on the walls and i’m thumping on them trying to get out and i’m bleeding but even the blood is colourless and i can’t tell if the room is a room or if it’s my mind
my name is I WANT TO BE A PART OF SOMETHING BIGGER, but all i have are these words and a space in my chest that’s perfect for a heart.
❛ Touch me anywhere you fancy, love… You and I are going to be ‘good friends’, aye? ❜
There is no hesitation in the extension of a callous-worn hand, fingertips quickly ( albeit gently, perhaps a strange thing to think one so stony and grim capable of being, were it not for the tenderness of her general affairs outside of War ) grasping at the fellow warrior’s earlobe, exploring and caressing it with curiosity. A narrowed gaze focuses upon the piercing, flipping the jewelry ❛twixt her fingers nimbly, tugging at piece with little care for whether or not it would harm him —— after all, she hadn’t been sure it was secured into his earlobe to begin with.
A dramatic scene where Kaal drops armour pieces as she walks and they are so heavy the pieces fall within a second of being un-clasped and fall so hard they are BURIED in the ground.
Be silent or let thy words be worth more than SILENCE.
S T A T U S .
original character. main blog. independent. private.
Original Character Blog. Private: strictly interacts with mutual follows.
I N F O R M A T I O N .
Hopefully that big ol’, “Original Character” blast up there was enough for you to know what this blog is – an Original Character. To get things right off the bat, this is my brain-baby. Theft of any sort from this blog is not tolerated, and don’t try spoon-feeding me that, ‘Oh but you just inspire me so much, Cath!’ bullshit ‘cause it’s theft and we all know it. There’s a difference between inspiration and stealing.
Kālĭnn is from an Empire rather like Mesopotamia, so it’s OLD. Old. The majority of the rest of the world within her canon resides is similarly Antediluvian; however, you will notice that she takes on the traits of many Mediæval Knights. No this was not a mistake, yes it is done on purpose. The best thing to keep in mind if you have any thought of interacting with Kālĭnn is that she is culturally displaced, MUTE, and is so stoic and calm in reaction to everything that it’s asinine.
☒ MAGIC ANONS. ☒ SEX, SMUT. ☒ ASKS PERTAINING TO SHIPPING/RELATIONSHIPS. ☒ GODMODDING, META-GAMING. ☒ HATE OF ANY VARIETY.
All of this is rather self-explanatory. Due to the nature of the muse, the themes dealt with inside my canon, and with a plethora of muses with whom I interact, content will include but are not limited to: blood, violence, and language. I don’t tag most ‘slurs’ unless they are ones I decide not to use myself, or am asked to tag. In which case, I probably wouldn’t use the word anyway. I do not tag gore in my posts unless it’s an image. I do not tag blood in my posts unless it is an image, nor do I tag weapons or anything of the like. Magic Anons have been used to insult the integrity of my character and myself as a person numerous times, and thus I’d like to not receive them; while sex jokes and talking about sex is fine, actually seeing sex or anything of the visual nature induces anxiety attacks for me due to reasons I am NOT obligated to share, and as such I will not write smut, and I ask that all sexual images be tagged. Everything else on the “don’t” check-list is due to personal preference – oh, and I’ll laugh at anon hate and delete it on sight.
S H I P P I N G .
Kālĭnn isn’t exactly romance friendly, if you hadn’t guessed. She’s resolute, stuck in her ways, waiting to die, and expends herself on people like you won’t believe. While open to friendships, romances are another thing entire, and she is single ship, ergo, I already have a ship parner and I don’t plan on changing this any time soon. If you wanna brOTP with her, be my guest! I mean, look at her borderline “something deeper” brOTP with Greed. It’s possible to become her friend, anyone could easily be her friend because she does not hold grudges ( except against herself ) so really, there’s always room for something, just hit me up with an idea.
C R E D I T S .
Chances are that if you’re seeing artwork on this blog, it does not belong to me. In fact, I keep a log of art credits on this very page. However, I do make edits and I take credit for the work that I have done that way, whether it be icons or banners or other miscellaneous graphics, they are mine, and taking from me is not tolerated because you do not know if I had the artist’s permission, and if you take from me, you definitely do not. Be smart.
The coding is mine. I made the code for this baby. I already released my code to the public, I’m sure you can find it on my personal somewhere ( my personal’s the credit link ), so honestly have away at it. I won’t answer coding questions unless it’s off anon, on my personal, or from a close friend. Sorry. I’m not that amazing at coding either.
ART CREDITS
Dashboard Icon:Era One – Concept 8 by Simon Goinard on ArtStation. Dash Banner:Goddess of Victory by EVentrue on DeviantART. Theme Art: I’m currently still hunting down the source, but it looks like the source was deleted. If anyone knows, lemme know? I wanna put their credit up. Icon Art: Mostly by Norihiro Yagi, from their manga Claymore. All other icon art will be sourced here as well. Graphic Maker: The ever-wonderful Stevie! A big hand to her genius~
DON’T STEAL. P.S. Sorry for being a total asshole in these rules. I promise I'm not as unapproachable as I seem ;w;
BITCHSTICKS
WAFFLENUGGS
BITCHSTICKS
WAFFLENUGGS
K A S Ū S U .
And no, it wasn't shame I now felt, or guilt, but something rarer in my life and stronger than both: REMORSE. A feeling which is more complicated, curdled, and primeval. Whose chief characteristic is that nothing can be done about it: too much time has passed, too much damage has been done, for amends to be made.
N Ā Š K A K K I .
Name: Kālĭnn. ( Kay — lynn. ) Alias(es): None. However, has accrued the moniker ❛Iron Talon❜ in certain regions. Age: Twenty-Eight. ( By Earth standards. Perceives self as being Twenty-Two Cycles of age. ) Hair Colour: Mahogany. ( A deep, rich brunette with flame-hued highlights and deep red colour whenever light hits it; could easily perceived as dark brown unless her hair is highlighted by light. ) Hair Length: Typically maintained within multiple braids, with her ( collar bone length ) bangs being braided and kept pinned on the top of her head so that her eyesight is not obscured; the rest of her hair, when braided, is approximately level with the small of her back. Eye Colour: A very lackluster hazel that appears to be grey rather than its true colour. Complexion: Dark, a very rich and deep tan. Sex: Female. Gender: Female. Nationality: Akkadian. Height: 1.85 metres ( 6 feet, 1 inch. ) Weight: 84 kilograms ( 185 pounds. ) However, when she is wearing full armour, she weighs roughly 157 kilograms, or 346 pounds. Body Build: Lean, robust and rippling sinew beneath layers of metal armaments, she is fit and athletic, and with no lack for muscle. Powerful and domineering physically, she has well-built hips and a graceful figure. Lean for lack of body fat ( by lack of proper eating habits and the frequency of the arduous and physically demanding tasks she indulges in ) but for no lack of muscle. She is extremely-well built. Could crush a man's head with her thighs. Physical Marks: A running from the bottom of her right ear across her cheek and over the bridge of her nose. It is wide and discoloured, the wound being more aesthetic than debilitating, however. Another scar trails from her left hip up across her back, cutting clean over the spine and around her right shoulder blade only to peak in severity at her right shoulder where the blade which has split her so had bit fiercely. ( Please note for all threads which are to take place post!Molymnias arc: At Molymnias, Kālĭnn's left eye is flogged out of socket. In addition to the re-opening of her facial scar, her lip becomes cleft and heals awkwardly so that she seems almost to sneer perpetually. ) Romantic Orientation: Demiromantic. Sexual Orientation: Pansexual. Marital Status: Single. ( However, taken heart & soul. ) Zodiac: Scorpio. Chinese Zodiac: Tiger. ( Element of fire. ) MBTI: ISTJ. ( Introverted Sensing Thinking Judging. ) MBTI Variant: Assertive. MBTI Role: Sentinel. Enneagram: 9w1 SO/SP. Temperament: Choleric. Element: Fire.
Rank: Hired soldier. ( Mercenary; wayfaring Warrior. ) Weapons: Seeming to be a most ordinary broadsword, Kālĭnn's preferred weapon is realtively unextraordinary at first glance, for it is neither gilded nor engraved with filigrees, and bears no crest or crust of jewels; the blade itself is modled after those of her homeland: wide, straight, and tapering towards the end into a rounded rounded ( yet lethal ) tip, and modified with the superior craftsmanship of an Akkadian blacksmith so that the metal is flexible yet retains its shape, aborbs shock through its core so as not to dull the edge or jeopardize the blade's wholeness. Make no mistake; it is a weapon of war and has slain many, and the blood of hundreds stains its guard crimson. As nameless as its master is to those she encounters, it is the most notable thing aside from her armour which is also modified after that of her homeland, as per her explicit request and exhaustive funding. Aside from that, she's several knives which she keeps stowed away, of similar craftsmanship ( though not so durable ), and, on occasion, she may weild a long-bow of exceptional height and draw-weight. However, her bow is nigh explicit in its use for hunting; she's yet to use it to loose an arrow into human flesh.
