Returning - O - Murder

[Deleted Characters]

TW: Violence
TW: Offensive Language
TW: Disorder Mentions/Explaination

[align=center]The wet sounds of something being hit could be heard around a corner. Sort of between the forest and a building; Trevor's hut. He'd been gone for a while. Thunk. Perhaps he'd gone off to find someone he knew. Thunk. Or learn how to do something. Thunk. Whatever it was, he'd seemed to fill out. Thp/ He was wearing better cloths. That old wound from the booby trap was all healed up. Shk... He may have even been getting more muscle. His arms seemed to flex with actual strength as he moved it repetitively, drawing back and taking another hard, exhausted swing below him. Shlck...

Earlier Trevor had returned, and a few new Grunts of War had mistaken him for someone who wasn't a Badlander. Shquik... Trevor had told them that he'd just gone away for a while, all while stuttering, and that he was coming back. Shquelk. He'd told them to leave him alone, but they wouldn't. One. Of. Them. Called him. Fucking retarded.

"I am NOT," he shouted, again and again as he beat at the Grunt. "A FUCKING retard!" Squelch. "I'm not fucking stupid," he roared again, breathing hard, straddling the body of the Grunt, pinning what used to be him by his throat. "And I have always," He threw another punch, now just beating a horrible mess of... crushed skull pieces and blood. "ALWAYS been smarter than you. I have more brains than you will ever have," he snarled, throwing another punch. As he drew his arm back again, covered in blood, his fingers were mangled, bruising all the way up to his wrist and forearm. He himself was bleeding as well. "Who the fuck has more brains now, jackass?!"

// Trevy has Dissociative Identity Disorder </3 so he has currently in blackout mode, and become extremely different from his normal personality. He won't remember any of this

[DYLAN,]

[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 460px; color: black; font-size: 9pt; line-height:115%; text-align: justify; margin-top: 5px"]Dylan hadn't heard anyone speak like that since his father during the last time they were together. The language itself didn't bother him because words were just words, but the punches and kicks that usually followed still made him shiver. It took him a few seconds to remind himself that his father was dead, that he was charred black and his bones were dust, but it didn't shake off the unease. The repetitive swearing and shouting was enough to make anyone flinch; although he was a few streets away from Trevor's hut, the sound was deafeningly loud.

He almost continued walking. He wasn't on his skateboard or bike today, but he almost continued with his day. Dylan weighed between the options: whoever was swearing and shouting and hitting something - someone? Who knew - could cause a scene, they could harm someone, anything. "Oh, for fucks sake." Muttered the boy under his breath as he pulled out his switchblade from his jeans back pocket. He walked towards the source of the yelling and thudding, praying that his feet wouldn't trip over anything and give him away. He wasn't sure who he was excepting to be the one doing all this, but it definitely wasn't Trevor. Trevor hadn't been around for a while and Dylan remembered him deciding to be a Grunt of Prey - whoever upset him, well, they weren't living to tell the tale.

"Trevor..." Called Dylan from a safe distance away, his eyes flickering over the bloodied mess and the boy without a hint of judgment. Trevor seemed to have passed out, which wasn't a surprise, but he still didn't approach him in case he would snap again. Dylan understood. He had been in a situation just like this five years ago. "What happened? Can you hear me?"

[Deleted Characters]

[align=center][size=9pt]Trevor's entire body went tense and he turned to look over at Dylan. He pursed his lips and kind of sneered, getting off of the mess he'd made and giving the ribs of the corpse a good kick for an extra insult to injury. He stood there for a moment, quiet and watching Dylan before something else seemed to wear thin, probably patience, and he snapped angrily. "What the fuck does it look like," he pointed one terribly mangled hand at the corpse. "He got what he deserved." He'd probably need a few bones set in that hand. He'd probably have quite a few crooked fingers in the future. "He's fucking lucky I didn't do worse." Even his face didn't look like Trevor. He still had those deep, gaunt cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, but there was a disturbed glimmer in his brown eyes, and his lips were pulled back in an out of character grimace.

[DYLAN,]

[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 460px; color: black; font-size: 9pt; line-height:115%; text-align: justify; margin-top: 5px"]Dylan kept the switchblade close to his leg as he shifted a step closer to Trevor. He was unsure of how to diffuse the situation - the Warchief often kept to himself, meaning his social experience lacked a lot. Whatever Dylan done in the next few minutes could result in a fight, a death or nothing at all. It was kind of scary, and it took him a few moments to compose himself. He tilted his head slightly and observed the mess before light gaze flicker back to the upset Grunt of Prey. Dylan's words came out quietly and soft, almost like a sigh. "You're right. I'm sorry." It would be hypocritical of him to say what Trevor had done was wrong. However, he wasn't ready to announce he had once done this too because it was so awful and he hadn't told anyone before. Instead the nineteen year old flicked the switchblade back into its slot and shoved it in the front pocket of his hoodie. He wasn't about to attack Trevor, and hopefully neither was he. Dylan was probably twice his height and weight anyway. "Luckily words are just words. They don't have to mean anything if we don't want them to."

/ 100th post whoa

[Deleted Characters]

[align=center][size=8pt]Trevor's shoulders relaxed slightly as Dylan agreed with him, making him feel a bit more comfortable. He even took his eyes off of Dylan, assuming he meant no harm even before the switchblade was put away. He stared down at the mess that was his right hand, the way his knuckles bruised and bled... he would fix it on his own, because he was smart and he wasn't stupid. That was why. The need to prove things to himself was overwhelming. Dylan spoke again and he looked up at him, his lips pursing tightly together and his eyes turning to daggers, glaring at the Warchief. While Dylan could easily take Trevor down, now that he knew to be careful, Trevor didn't seem to fear the other. "They don't mean shit, because they're wrong," he snapped, the meaning of the whole thing going over his head, or perhaps he knew what it meant somewhere in there, and that it was true, but his heart refused to allow reason at the moment.

// I AM HONORED

[clover.]

[align=center]

[div style="width: 400px; border-bottom: 10px transparent solid;font-family: arial; font-size: 12px; color: #161922; text-align: center;"]EITHER I'M SLEEPING OR I'M DEAD, WHICH IS IT?

silently, she watched from a distance away as though she were frozen. looking down at the beaten grunt, the woman grimaced. trevor had been brutal...was this the same boy that had she'd seen before, who had been unable to meet her eyes?

despite the obvious fear and hesitation she felt, concern filled her olive gaze as she looked over trevor and dylan. the latter looked rattled but oddly composed, and she couldn't help but feel proud of the nineteen-year-old. she looked at the warchief fully, giving him a stare of mixed emotions. he wasn't a kid, but he wasn't an adult in her eyes and it took guts to try and deal with the situation.

the distance between herself and trevor waned, as she approached slowly and carefully; her eyes flicked over trevor, searching for some sort of wound. "hey, trevor, is it alright if i help you?" her voice was gentle, soft, as though she were tip-toeing around the boy like he could strike at any moment. was she afraid? yes, but she was more afraid for trevor than anything else. "i can help stop the bleeding. just let me get close enough and i can help you."

[spoiler=✨ INFORMATION | JULY TWENTY-NINTH]GENERAL ·ﾟ★
— clover neraida maryam / cis female / she/her pronouns / prefers to be called clover; won't object to any nicknames used by friends
— created may 27th  / twenty-three years old / mentally and physically an adult
— the badlands / grunt of prey

MISC INFO ·ﾟ★
— never takes off the silver ring engraved with roses and vines on her middle finger as it was given to her by her best friend.
— a lover of fashion and a passionate seamstress. will reassemble her clothing to create new outfits, and despite how impractical it may be she'll pay money for new fabric and cloth for her clothing.
— loves horror and romantic literature.
— enjoys gardening and creates gardens whenever she goes.
— speaks in a very articulate and verbose manner.

PHYSICAL ·ﾟ★ x.
— physical health: 100% / mental health: 95%
— upright posture / walks with a graceful gait  / smells of dyes and cloth
— she is 5'9'', which is considerably taller than most woman and tends to tower over many others. she has short and sleek black hair that sweeps onto her forehead, olive black eyes, and caramel brown skin that is typically covered with long sleeved clothing but from time-to-time she can be seen with a t-shirt. often, she is wearing a black hijab and lipstick. clover's ears are pierced, and she wears silver studs. a scar stretches across her stomach. she has swirling tattoos over her back, shoulders, and upper arms but they are never seen due to her outfits, which she conveniently cuts to cover herself.

PERSONALITY ·ﾟ★
— positive traits: motherly, patient, humble, worrier
— neutral traits: perceptive, natural peacemaker, serious, mature
— negative traits: literal, high self-expectations, judgmental, awkward
— ravenclaw / amity / mbti type
— clover is an amiable and patient person, born with mother-like instincts. she is prone to keeping tabs on people, but she means no harm by it; if she cares about you, she does it to be sure that you're alright. at times, it's difficult for clover to relax, and her serious attitude can sometimes put people off.

RELATIONSHIPS ·ﾟ★
— queer / single / not necessarily looking or interested
— virginia maryam x unnamed father
— older biological sister is priscilla (npc)
— pm to mentor / prev trained by her sister

INTERACTION ·ﾟ★
— hard physically / hard mentally / knows self defense
— usually doesnt start fights / shows mercy (rarely) / will kill; will maim
— has no issues with the necessity of violent bloodshed / the type to execute decisions for the greater good regardless of their personally unsavory nature
— attack in bold white
— powerplaying nonviolent/healing actions is allowed
— in a fight, clover is accustomed to fighting with her fists and will not hesitate to hurt anyone who threatens her. she is familiar with how to fight with daggers and blades, and conceals one on the inside of her thigh as well as in her sleeves or pocket. her secondary weapon, as strange as it may be, is a chainsaw. it had once been used to help with her landscaping but when she decided to leave, she knew that a simple dagger wasn't going to be enough. along with that, she'll typically carry an automatic pistol on her hip.

OTHER ·ﾟ★
— heartchart / pinterest / bio / pm this account for plots
— lowkey based off of kanaya maryam from homestuck

[Deleted Characters]

[align=center][size=8pt]Trevor's eyes narrowed as Clover approached. What the hell were they all looking at? He stepped back from them, starting to feel like a cornered animal. "I can take care of it myself, I'm not stupid," he snapped angrily, though fixing his hand with only one remaining, and not his dominant, hand would be difficult. He didn't seem to want to admit that. He could figure it out. He knew he could. He'd use his teeth and he knew how to put herbs on them, or at least he had his book. He had a book he could use to figure it out. He wasn't. He wasn't stupid.

All the same his brain was starting to wind down and the tears of all the stress he'd just been under started to run down his face. After a moment, he sniffed and gave a small 'ow' when he realized his hand hurt that bad. He seemed to be back from whatever freakout he'd just been having.

[JOHN WHISKERS]

JOHN WHISKERS

[justify]Jesus fucking christ. John approached cautiously, the smell of blood so strong that he felt both hungry and disgusted. The Headhunter walked up near Clover, careful to keep his distance. He watched Trevor wearily, unable to understand how the trembling, terrified boy he'd known had become.. This.

He bit his lip, not really knowing what to say. Clover and Dylan seemed to know what to do in this situation more then him, so he trusted them to handle it. Still, he didn't want to walk away when his Grunt of Prey had just splattered a dude's brains all over the ground.[/justify]

All the poets in the alley coughing up blood
And their visions and their dreams are coming up red