❛ YOU WANT TO KILL ME MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE / THAT’S WHAT LOVE IS, BABY.
bishop.
a man who prefers to harden himself against the world—thrice-scorned and just as damned, and ( still ) clasping a soft tenderness. a monster to himself and the rest of the world, and baby, red has never looked quite so good on another killer.& there is only this single truth: IF YOU CANNOT BE LOVED, THEN YOU MUST BE FEARED. the first sin is to want, corruption beginning with the way he fits his mouth around disaster. & if WANTING is a sin, then he is unrepentant: the tongue, the throat, the way HE GLUTS HIMSELF ON GLORY.
rules.
ooc does not equal ic.
activity may fluctuate; will try to reply consistently. will keep you updated if i do have to go mia for periods of time.
🕊️ themes: the monstrous & the macabre, love & grief, violence & blood & a fate that we make ourselves. also deals with themes intrinsically tied to the criminal underworld.
please do not interact if you are under 21; mun is 25+.
please communicate with me if anything we write makes you uncomfortable; i'll do the same.
open to plotting via /tell; can move to discord after discussion to see if we jive well. feel free to @ me if i haven't responded within a couple of days.
muse.
NAME bishop | enkh
AGE appears early thirties
RACE xaela au’ra | voidsent
PRONOUNS he&him
SEXUALITY pansexual
INTERESTED IN anything that looks prettier broken | anything that can break him
OCCUPATION executioner
godsblooded eyes that gutter like twin suns & dark limbal rings that burn 'neath long lashes. three sets of too-sharp canines, both above and below. dove-pale hair curling in reckless locks around his face—tamed, for the moment.his tail is long, thick, and sinuous—ends at a knife-sharp point that's most often decorated with delicate golden chains and bells that twinkle always a half-step after he moves. often seen with gold clasped around his neck, his ears, his ankles, and his wrists.runic tattoos are carved into his skin—though usually glamoured. the blood-red symbols are etched in textured ridges all across his body in an openly ostentatious fashion. darker, almost black, runes are carved like chains around his wrists, his neck, and his ankles. the device around his neck blinks a red warning.
you & the voidsent that wears your smile like a second skin have reached an understanding: monster-to-monster, ( breathe in & bite down on the heart that rests between your teeth ) and no longer the man who renamed himself jet—but also no longer that sun-stained xaela of the buduga tribe, you tear what remains of the soft heart in your core and remake yourself as bishop; a chess piece, both too-person to be a monster & too-monster to be a person.enkh is everything you’ve sworn yourself against—everything that the world needs you to be: all the darkness in the world gathered at his fingertips like a lover’s prayer, & his laugh against your heart like a benediction. you are forgiven for the choices you have made, his honey-sweet voice a devil’s temptation—and you were raised vicious and hungry—and this is the way of the world: nothing but the rule of beasts and the rule of the gods before them.
bishop.
IF IT WAS A SIN TO LOVE, THEN YOURS IS THE ORIGINAL SIN. you have forgotten, bishop, how your kind falls in love—the moment ??? named you, you were lost: the world at your fingertips and yet.you have not seen the face of god, but you have seen ???—and you gave them your heart and they have taken it from your chest, fingertips sinking softlysoftlysoftly into your ribs ( euphoric, you were, until your still-beating heart left you. ) this is the first & the last time ??? has ever touched you.your hands don't know how to be gentle: you leave smears of red on everything you touch. you break everything you touch with the depth of your wanting, and still—this is a lesson that you have not learned.
| LIKES: drinking kugane’s strongest sake on the tallest peak in the city ; the sick kinda’ power trip you get wrapping your hands around someone’s neck ; the kinda’ lovesick you get when someone carves your body open on their knife ; the leash strung around his throat like a noose ; victory, even at the cost of everything else |
| DISLIKES: injustices ; starvation like a disease ; people breaking things that are his ; hypocritical bastards who try to turn him against his masters ; the sun in his eyes—the way it brings him into a killing-stupor ; being hungry ( important things must be said at least twice ) |
| an asset, contained by antibody. wholly voluntary—wears a red-lit device embedded into his nape. beast-hunter and person-hunter and a thing that only knows what it is like to chase. |
| previously a child of the steppe, hungry & starving for something that he could call his own. a monster then—and even more of a monster now. |
they say,you wanted so much that hydaelyn Herself gave unto you, bosom heaving and aether spilling from Her mouth and into your lungs. you wanted so much that you drowned in it—you wanted so much that even an inch less made it seem like a drought, a forest caught in a wildfire ( the absence of oxygen ).fond of slow nights: drinking wine on the tallest tower in the zone, fingertips touching the pages of an antique book.fond of violent nights: flashes of hot-sharp pain across knuckles & blood in mouth & grins that cast a shade too feral.
enkh.
| voidsent ; experienced as intention. associated with manipulations of causality in service to overwhelming hunger. the need to hunt and destroy. the meaning of life as a tool. as teeth. cycles and cycles and cycles of red. |
| appeared drawn to the stench of death in critical zone ???. fed by the desire that was named revenge. |
born into sin—born as sin, and never quite knowing anything else, but it is better to live this way than to learn otherwise. ( we want what we cannot have. repeat. we want what we cannot have. )hungry, greedy, and grasping: vicious, in the way wild things are. in the way things that know the joy of flight & of touching the sun are.( because there is a joy to this, wild and violent and free. )
they say he stepped into the world like a newborn fawn; one sandalled foot in front of the other, a careless grace to the way ash dusted his steps as the shadow of the obelisk crumbled behind him.they say he wears godhood like a darling violence: myriad eyes and jaws that could swallow up the whole of the world. the sound of his name is the sound of humanity shivering from its skin, the nexus of a storm held between his teeth.in his real form, he is a thing writ large: stars that layer themselves upon his shoulders like a mantle of prayer, every empire laying itself prostrate at his altar—throats bared and waiting. his eyes are smoky with burning topiary and omens, a thing left best to its own devices,but here we are.
timeline.
i.
the steppe.
the son of the buduga tribe that has only known war ( born with nothing to your name but a laugh like a war-cry echoing in your throat ) was brought up to be nothing but someone who would bring the world to its knees.from the moment you could take your first two steps, the sharp-cold edge of a dagger stung your small hands. from the moment you could speak, a snarl that would damn gods rode on your tongue. you were raised vicious and hungry—and this was the way of the world: nothing but the rule of beasts and the rule of the gods before them. and you were the pride of your tribe, a princeling brought up to be wild-eyed and ruinous: bred for calamity with those animal-eyes glinting like something feral in the dark.( there is nothing tender in a tribe that has inhaled war to the point of suffocation, gorging itself on blood and the battle-fever of the sun. it is little wonder, then, that you’ve never learned the meaning of mercy.darling, there is little that you could call your own—& if you are worth anything at all, it is this: throw a dog a bone, and it’ll wag its tail at you for a lifetime. throw this dog a bone, and sure, you’ll bite the hand that feeds you, chewing up fingerbones ‘til it’s all gore and gristle, but you’re a territorial sonuvabitch who never learned the meaning of life past violence. you’ll damn yourself before you let the tribe fall from glory, like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted to keep safe: an old chew-toy you’ve sunk your teeth into.it wasn’t enough, in the end—the orphaned boy you were all too fond of, a brother in everything but blood, pressed the knife to your throat and left you for dead on the day of the naadam. )
ii.
antibody.
the son of the buduga tribe that has only known war ( born with nothing to your name but a laugh like a war-cry echoing in your throat ) was brought up to be nothing but someone who would bring the world to its knees.from the moment you could take your first two steps, the sharp-cold edge of a dagger stung your small hands. from the moment you could speak, a snarl that would damn gods rode on your tongue. you were raised vicious and hungry—and this was the way of the world: nothing but the rule of beasts and the rule of the gods before them. and you were the pride of your tribe, a princeling brought up to be wild-eyed and ruinous: bred for calamity with those animal-eyes glinting like something feral in the dark.( there is nothing tender in a tribe that has inhaled war to the point of suffocation, gorging itself on blood and the battle-fever of the sun. it is little wonder, then, that you’ve never learned the meaning of mercy.darling, there is little that you could call your own—& if you are worth anything at all, it is this: throw a dog a bone, and it’ll wag its tail at you for a lifetime. throw this dog a bone, and sure, you’ll bite the hand that feeds you, chewing up fingerbones ‘til it’s all gore and gristle, but you’re a territorial sonuvabitch who never learned the meaning of life past violence. you’ll damn yourself before you let the tribe fall from glory, like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted to keep safe: an old chew-toy you’ve sunk your teeth into.it wasn’t enough, in the end—the orphaned boy you were all too fond of, a brother in everything but blood, pressed the knife to your throat and left you for dead on the day of the naadam. )
relations
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