legend of the phoenix >> open ;; whittling

[MICHAEL.]

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[div style="borderwidth; width: 400px; padding: 1px; text-align: justify; color: #4B3E2D; line-height: 14px; font-size: 11pt; font-family:timesnewroman"]"speech" 'thought' text
tw: alcohol, death, lots of blood, profanity, heavy violence, religion

In one hand, an ever decreasing in size piece of wood, slowly being formed into a curve. In the other a small pocket knife, the handle inlaid with mother of pearl. It had been a gift meant for Will, though the boy would never receive it now. Despite the anguishing loss of the young man, Michael couldn't help but believe that his son was in a better place.

Still religious (and doomed to eternal torment once he finally died) Michael firmly believed that his son, who was in his eyes perfect, was destined for the pearly gates, and was there now. It was a comfort. And though he sorely missed the young man, his smile, his cheer... and the fact he had never been able to apologize, he was of the belief that Will was happy.

Maybe he was lying to himself to make his aching heart feel better, but it didn't feel like a lie, it felt like reality. And so, with that in his heart, he worked steadily on the growing curve. He had one just like it, this one hollowed out and sanded. He would fasten the two pieces together using a glue he'd made from sap. Inside would be pebbles. He'd stain it, attach a handle to it, and offer it as a gift to the newly born child of the Badlands.

He sat on the steps to the casino, having grown tired of his own abode, the silence, the emptiness... the gloomy cloud of his own making that hung over that place. He needed the fresh, nippy air, it was much better for working in.

While he may just be a cantankerous old bastard who had lost more than some ever had, he was not heartless... the three weeks of silence were a testament to just how hurt he had been by the murder of his son. The first week of that had been the hardest, every second yearning for a drink to numb the pain.

But he had conquered that, and was still sober, not having drunk since he'd left the Badlands. As he carefully carved away at the wood, his finger slipped, and the sharp knife cut into his skin, drawing blood, and a sharp hiss of pain from Mike.

"Blast!" He muttered hoarsely, speaking for the first time in three weeks, it seemed foreign, alien to him, as though the words were someone else's. He'd almost forgotten the sound of his own voice.

[CATALYST]

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﹝[abbr=don't look back]♢[/abbr]﹞

Cat liked to think of themself as a creative person. It didn't manifest itself in ways that most people were likely to notice, or all that often, but it was there. The same could be said for their smarts. They might have made a good Ravenclaw, but Cat had been drawn towards the Slytherins. Not when they were little, and ran around dressed up like Harry for Halloween (they cringe), but as they grew up they found themself identifying more with the outcast kids that stuck with their own because everyone else seemed to despise them. The ones that were set up for failure, yet wanted more than that.

They started hating the books for making all the Slytherins evil, with few exceptions, though it wasn't as though Cat was a good person.

Where did this come from? Yes, creative outlets. If it wasn't showing up in "witty" banter with Addy, Salem or Lucerne, or the occasional punishment they handed out, it was in the form of their clothes. Indeed, some of their signature jackets came just the way they liked them, but Cat had to make the rest. What did that have to do with Mike sitting on the steps whittling? Simple, whittling was his creative outlet, fashion was Cat's.

And then the blade slipped. "Blast!" Holy shit, he actually spoke. Surprise flashed over their face, eyebrows lifting towards the heavens. "So you are still in possession of your tongue and vocal cords. Nice."

//why I went off on a Harry Potter tangent... uhh

[spoiler=IF YOU DONT KNOW NOW YOU KNOW && INFO && 12/12/19]GENERAL  welcome to the end of eras, ice has melted back to life
⇥ Given name is Scott Mathew Darrow ⇥ Alias is Catalyst
⇥ Will accept Cat or Catalyst from anyone, Scott only from family
⇥ Assigned male at birth ⇥ Agender ⇥ They/Them pronouns only
⇥ Twenty-one ⇥ Born 11/27/17 ⇥ Sagittarius ⇥ Real time aging
⇥ Boss (leader) of the Badlands ⇥ Ex prisoner of the Badlands
⇥ Ex cultist (Mourningstar) ⇥ Ex member of the Young Rogues

RECENT EVENTS  done my time and served my sentence
⇥ 09/12/39 ⇥ Made their return to public life in the Badlands
⇥ 09/07/39 ⇥ Took a break to recover from their illness
⇥ 11/02/39 ⇥ Came down with a cold

APPEARANCE  dress me up and watch me die
⇥ Catalyst is 6'2" tall; they possess a lean and muscular body, one that has a variety of old scars adorning it. One of the easiest to notice is one that stretches down their right cheek. While not a scar, one very notable marking on their chest is the "BL" brand. They have two piercings, one in their tongue and the other in the cartilage of their left ear. They typically dress in dark colors (favoring jackets with some sort of writing on the back), and their hair is black. They're not all dark, however, as they have pale blue eyes that peer out from beneath medium-sized eyebrows.

PERSONALITY  if it feels good, tastes good, it must be mine
⇥ Catalyst is ambitious, with the cunning and ruthlessness to reach their goals by any means necessary. They can be brutal when they feel it is needed, however when it's not they won't bother. They tend to be rather aloof and apathetic to most things and people, with some very rare exceptions. Provided those around them don't cross a few specific lines, they're content to leave them be, though they've been known to take an interest in some people, which seldom has a positive end for whoever their interest is in. They can be manipulative, and will often encourage people to make bad decisions. Those that stick by them will be rewarded, but those that do not will be cast out, as they've been outcast for their entire life and have learned to appreciate loyalty wherever they can find it. Even during the most stressful of situations, they usually keep a firm grip on their temper and keep their calm, though when they do snap and lose their temper, it is uncontrollable. They're remarkably observant, often able to deign much from subtle clues in what people say, how they say it and how they act.

RELATIONS  dynasty decapitated, you just might see a ghost tonight
⇥ Molly Darrow x Austin Darrow ⇥ No biological siblings
⇥ Adopted parent of Molly Valentina Darrow-Lupei (Mo)
⇥ Pansexual/Panromantic ⇥ Very much taken by Gavril Lupei
⇥ Not looking but it happened ⇥ Rarely forms romantic attachment
⇥ Holds most people at arms length and doesn't get close

INTERACTION  i'm taking back the c r o w n
⇥ Hard physically ⇥ Hard mentally ⇥ Doesn't let their guard down
⇥ Is most comfortable with close ranged-weapons ⇥ Dislikes guns
⇥ Brass knuckles ⇥ A variety of knives ⇥ Carries a handgun
⇥ Will kill/capture/maim in certain circumstances
⇥ Will leave things be in others ⇥ Will start & finish fights
⇥ No kill/capture/maim without permission
⇥ Attack in bold #0d0d0d and tag @/Bryne
⇥ Peaceful powerplay allowed but they may react negatively
⇥ Dislikes almost any sort of touch unless they initiate or agree to it
[/spoiler]

[DoI]

[align=center][div style="width: 390px; text-align: justify;"]iiniwa was no stranger to losing a child. he'd lost his own, whether they were killed or kidnapped, he still wasn't sure, but he had a reaction very like Michael's. hadn't spoken to anyone for a month, the only difference being he had his wife at his side every step of the way. the first week was always the hardest, he knew that from experience, but then there were the weeks following. it felt like things were getting worse the longer things went, but you slowly started to see things that made it better each day.

he had thrown himself into his culture and family history, that had certainly helped him, learning about cousins, reuniting with aunts and uncles, surrounding himself in family, mostly. but everyone had different coping mechanisms. not speaking was probably michael's, but he didn't know anything about the man's life, just little whispers here and there. "you should be more careful. do you need a bandage or anything? wouldn't want that getting infected." he was being genuine, for once in his life. no jokes or sarcasm.

[MICHAEL.]

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[div style="borderwidth; width: 400px; padding: 1px; text-align: justify; color: #4B3E2D; line-height: 14px; font-size: 11pt; font-family:timesnewroman"]"speech" 'thought' text
tw: alcohol, death, lots of blood, profanity, heavy violence, religion

Yanking his hand away from the blade, he put both the wood he was whittling and the knife down beside him carefully, then putting his middle finger in his mouth and sucking on the blood for a moment to stem the bleeding. It wasn't a bad cut, and it hadn't hurt so much as startle him. It was the first time he'd really felt pain in the time since his son's death.

Perhaps nothing would have come from the involuntary word which he had uttered, but Cat's appearance changed that, mixed with their dry remark on his ability to speak brought a raised eyebrow to his face, and he looked up at Cat, absently wrapping his bleeding finger in the corner of his shirt.

He opened his mouth to reply quietly, but shut it when Iiniwa arrived and began to speak, there was nothing pressing to convey, well, perhaps something, but that could wait for a while. It was a bit important, not something he wished to say in front of a (more or less) stranger.

As the other man spoke, Mike listened quietly to the suggestion... more or less of putting a bandaid on, and shrugged his shoulders absently. There wasn't much to say in response, it was true, he didn't want it to get infected, though it really wasn't the worst he'd been hurt, hell it was a paper cut compared to the majority of his injuries... and not the most painful of paper cuts.

Mike looked at Cat, "Always have..." Was his startlingly long reply, his voice was a bit husky, not using it could have that sort of effect. "Smart, I'll do that." Was his equally as verbose response to the words of Iiniwa. He wasn't opposed to talking anymore, but he had regained a sense of peace with the silence, something he had thought never to have (even before his son's untimely death.)