BULLSHIT, YOU FUCKING MISS ME — JOINING

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    she writhes beneath them, violent and vicious, profanities spilling from her lips in an intoxicated tongue. exhaustion chews at her muscles, maws her bones. the mercury in her system rebuffs the adrenaline that wants to pour into her, help her fight off the nasty little shit that's got her eating dirt. tack on the fact that she's drunk as hell, and it's painfully obvious this girl is fucked. paws snake around her strong neck, her head forcibly twists to one side and hot white pain explodes, the snapping of bone following her down into the sudden darkness that swamps her vision.

    ...


    if there is one word to describe chicagocrimes right now, it would be shook. she is confused, she is angry, she is lost, she is shook. struck down at the hands of an invader, chica thought that the fight in the knights of eden was her last, and her life would be over. she'd finally be able to claim her rightful place in heaven (or hell, doesnt really matter) and she'd be sitting pretty with her fiance, olive. instead, chica is back in this motherfucking shithole, left with facing the facts that heaven nor hell wants her, and she's damned for all eternity to walk this effing planet until the sun burns out and the apocalypse starts or some shit like that.



    so these last few days she's been wandering, a spirit hunting for a body once more and today she got lucky. she pried the original soul from its vessel, devoured it so it wouldn't pose as a later threat, and now chica is rocking a body that is not quite like her original. it's a lion of course, but the fur's coloring isn't her style. mm, if it gets too annoying, she can always dye it, swap out mousey brunette for strawberry blonde. she'd be at least one step closer to her old self. not much she can do for the eyes though, save maybe buy contacts. lavender contacts over orange irises. it does not sound very pretty, but whatever. beauty isn't everything, and it certainly isn't something she ought to worry about at the moment.


    now possessing a real body, she is faced with real dilemmas such as food, water, and shelter. the first two were easy enough, a simple twist of her mind could conjure either up if she wishes. building a camp, however, recquires physical effort... something chicagocrimes is admittedly too tired to do (reaping souls isn't a walk in the park, after all!).


    she refuses to trek anywhere near the sanctuary; to hell with that, it's nothing but a big 'fuck you' to chicago now. the knights of eden more or less irked her with their hype about peace and justice, so that's a no-go. and so, her last resort, chica decides to grace graveclan (or, whatever the fuck it's called now) with her presence— only to discover that the shits moved out. the fuck. no problem though, chicagocrimes managed to catch up, striding into its make-shift camp like no one's business, "so this is where ya lil heffers ran off to, huh?" chica murmurs, mostly under her breath, and when she draws a few questioning stares the girl grins. "oi! names chicagocrimes (call me chica) and 'm jumpin on this bandwagon so take a fuckin sip, babes."


    WOLFGANG  I'M SORRY

    [ tags ]

    Chicagocrimes. The name brought back memories of huddling in a barn during rainy days and going grave digging, something that he didn't really want to remember. It just reminded him that everything went downhill from that point forward. But it seems like the past had come back to haunt him anyway, even if the female didn't know it. Saint had been across camp smoking when he heard someone cursing, taking a moment to snub out the cigarette before walking over. "Well, you certainty know how to make an entrance." He joked. Faint wisps of smoke trailed from his maw and nostrils as he talked, a small smile soon appearing on his muzzle. "The name's Saintscrossing, but I beleive we've met already."

    The post was edited 1 time, last by SAINTS. ().

    "you certainly know how to make an entrance."

    "damn straight." an instant reply, one that pops from her mouth before his voice even registers. eyes angle toward the speaker, and while he does strike her familiar she doesn't make a connection until his name is given. shock flashes beneath her skin at first but quickly a grin spreads, wide across her face, "saints? ya lil fucker, this is where ya ran off to?" she tilts her body toward him, orange hues locking onto his as she carries on with the banter, "damn fam, what's good?" their eyes drift to his cigarette smoke that still spills from his jaws, sparking a request, "oi, can i bum a cig off of ya?" same old chica.

    THE CRIMINAL IN ME — graveclan — tags

    sinner

    It's hard not to forget the voice if Chica. The German knew how she spoke all too well from his days living in the Sanctuary and being a throne of war for some time. Mmm. Perhaps they could changed ranks to be similar to that. While the sensate wasn't big on starting wars he wouldn't care if he had to kill someone if needed. Ears twitch as the blond Australian kelpie made his way over, cerulean eyes glancing over at Saints then Chica, quickly getting that they must have known each other at one point in time. "I didn't expect to see you here." The words are slow as the male padded over, a small smirk spreading over his maw. "Where's your girlfriend?" No hello. No welcome. There was no need for any or in Wolfgang's eyes, that is.

    wolfgang. the girl twitches a slightly rounded ear out of habit, a shot of persimmon orbs shifting from one familiar face to the next. "didnt expect ta see you, either." and she really didn't. wasn't there some sort of unspoken rule that when a leader stepped down from their duties, they carried on their merry way? lulu told her all about the takeover and that comet girl, so she's taken aback by his presence. it speedily dissolves into curiousity, however. "what are ya doin' here, anyway? thought yer ass got dethroned or some shit like that." she gets to the point, per usual. has she ever mentioned that she doesn't sugar coat a motherfucking thing? no? well, now you know. 'course, her mood darkens, ever so subtly, upon the inquiry as to where olive is.


    "fiancé." it's odd how quickly her attitude shifts at such a seemingly innocent question. her voice is blunt but concrete, assertive and dry of emotion as she attends to the grim news. brows pull down, her lip curls, and she continues on with an idle shrug of her shoulders, "olive's dead." yeah, no sugar coating here. "been dead fer awhile now." should she cry over something that happened what feels like eons ago? because she's pretty sure olive's death has already dried her eyes of tears.

    THE CRIMINAL IN ME — graveclan — tags