-The Mythics RP-

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Lacy Duckwing said:
Gecko lurked in the dusty shadows below deck. Strangers of man and Mythic continually returned, dropping off large crates and wooden barrels in the storage room. He watched, digging his claws into his wrists. Shivers ran down his spine.
Gecko cocked his head toward the ceiling. She was up there. And death. Gecko closed his eyes and laid his chin on his chest. Death had came close to him today- too close. In a moment, he could have been gone. Such a thing he had hoped to never cross paths with again.
Gecko ran a shaking claw over his neck, stopping by the bulging jugular. She could have killed him- just one shot, one pull of the trigger- bam, dead. Dead just like they were, those he grew up with. They were all slaughtered in a single day, each fighting their own battle- against each other. Friends, family, foe- They all knew each other, but they all turned against each other anyway.
Gecko peeled his eyes open. He rushed his claw down, leaving a minor scratch on his neck. No, it was over. He couldn't go through it again. It was cause of him going insane. If he had to go through it again, surely there would be nothing left to him mentally. He'd possibly become like a wild animal in the forest with no meaning or language. Or maybe he’d become something worst- much worst.
 Tesla, the name rumbled in his head. That was more than his obsession, it was his escape. It was where he drove all his madness to, and in one sense, it had become his savior.
Gecko set his foot on a crate and leaned against his knee. He laid a claw on his face and his body trembled. "No. No, no," he whispered, shaking his head. Screams and terror. It was all coming back to him. He flared his wings. His blood boiled into a cold sweat. It was betrayal. Cold, bloody betrayal. Something he couldn't stand against.
He lowered his claw low enough to see a man and a Mythic carrying a large crate past. His throat tightened. Only in time would they turn on him as well. They all would. They'd turn on each other and kill everyone! Gecko backed into the wall just as another monster walked past. He laid his hand on his stomach.
Monstehs, he reminded himself, his eyes growing wide with horror. They all monsterhs! They going to kill us all! They- he dropped to the ground, covering himself with his wings. He couldn't lose himself here. At least not now. They would hang him just like they hanged the only survivors. He had escaped then- but here, he knew he couldn't.
Click to expand...
(Ember legit just sent Gecko into a spiraling hysteria of trauma)
 
(Fitzpatrick time let’s gooo)

The cells and their surrounding hallways were
well and truly horrid.
Fitz loosed his pocketwatch from his waistcoat, watching the small gold hands impatiently.
The dank air clung to the skin, and Fitz tried in vain to scrape his hooves along the stone ground to rid them of the vile sensation.
His cravat felt awfully restrictive against his throat, and was he sweating? Or was it just the wretched damp air?
No matter what, this was no place for any high-standing gentleman. And it certainly was no place for Fitzpatrick Pinchbeck.
The watch hands reached seven-thirty, and much to his relief, a centaur guard turned the hallway corner and guided him to his destination; a small, windowed cell. Fitz’s eyes flicked down to the keys at the centaur’s belt, the Mythic man understood and unlocked the door.
Hooves clicking against the cobbles, he entered the room, looking firmly at its sole occupant, a red-scaled wyvern boy.
He folded his hands behind his back, briefly glancing around the small cell before again fixing the wyvern with a scrutinizing stare.
“You’ll be leaving for Undermine soon,” he stated, curtly.
His hands felt dirty just being in the room, he desperately wanted to wipe them off but the only options were his fine coat, the fur of his legs—clean fur, mind you— or the sash tied around his waist, displaying the King’s colors. With a huff, he contented himself with keeping them clasped and far away from touching any surface.
The barest hint of disdain slipped into his voice, “I will be…accompanying you, aboard the ship. The name is Pinchbeck.”

@Blue Raptor
 
RDchicken99 said:
(Fitzpatrick time let’s gooo)

The cells and their surrounding hallways were
well and truly horrid.
Fitz loosed his pocketwatch from his waistcoat, watching the small gold hands impatiently.
The dank air clung to the skin, and Fitz tried in vain to scrape his hooves along the stone ground to rid them of the vile sensation.
His cravat felt awfully restrictive against his throat, and was he sweating? Or was it just the wretched damp air?
No matter what, this was no place for any high-standing gentleman. And it certainly was no place for Fitzpatrick Pinchbeck.
The watch hands reached seven-thirty, and much to his relief, a centaur guard turned the hallway corner and guided him to his destination; a small, windowed cell. Fitz’s eyes flicked down to the keys at the centaur’s belt, the Mythic man understood and unlocked the door.
Hooves clicking against the cobbles, he entered the room, looking firmly at its sole occupant, a red-scaled wyvern boy.
He folded his hands behind his back, briefly glancing around the small cell before again fixing the wyvern with a scrutinizing stare.
“You’ll be leaving for Undermine soon,” he stated, curtly.
His hands felt dirty just being in the room, he desperately wanted to wipe them off but the only options were his fine coat, the fur of his legs—clean fur, mind you— or the sash tied around his waist, displaying the King’s colors. With a huff, he contented himself with keeping them clasped and far away from touching any surface.
The barest hint of disdain slipped into his voice, “I will be…accompanying you, aboard the ship. The name is Pinchbeck.”

@Blue Raptor
Click to expand...
AAAH ME? OKAY? UM HERE I GO DON’T KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING!

Aerie stared at the odd man with his large golden eyes.
Was it finally time? It felt like an eternity had passed since Your Highness had first told him that he was destined to bring down a great fortress and free the lands, and now here the moment had come; in the form of a goat-man.
A small flare of excitement, long diminished, rekindled and mixed with the confusion he felt at the moment and created an odd mixture he wasn’t sure how to respond to. His reaction timing was all but gone after the many years in the cell.
He simply addressed the first thing he could put solid focus to. In his rough voice, he asked; “Why are you..” he looked Pinchbeck up and down slowly, the scent of the Mythic calling up an old memory of high-climbing mammals. “Mixed with a goat?”
 

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