Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-25389303-20180831104140/@comment-5999656-20180901040132

The director's hired hands stand side by side, faces forward, feet planted, atop the roof of the nearest guard's tower. They're both young, in their early twenties, and a sharp intellect shines in the pair of eyes that not so long ago belonged to those of children. No longer shielded by the waywardness of adolescence, but not quite hardened by the cold truths of adulthood, there's another aspect of their shared gaze which is more chilling than their position, perched against the sky like a pair of hawks, or angels. It's innocence, a terrible innocence: a purity of vision, an unchallenged and unsupported belief in the triumph of goodness by virtue or violence, by their hands or by others. But that is where the similarity ends.

The boy hunts. He has burned his image into the memory of everyone in the small town he hails from through the destruction he leaves in the wake of every successful mission. Where the whisper of his name is heard, a mental image follows: a smoking wreckage of houses intermixed with bits of Grimm, and his hair blonde like cornrows and emerald green eyes gleaming in the smoke with the hint of something between a sneer or a smile to follow before he steps from the inferno unscathed.

The girl, she protects. She can't count how many times she's leaped in front of a bullet for a client, guided by a sacrificial instinct that was drilled into her from the day of her birth. She has directed high speed car chases in the middle of the night after hooded assassins fleeing from a job gone wrong, and she has sat beside her clients' young children in their brightly lit living rooms, entertaining them for a few days while their parents vacation in some distant island getaway. It seems odd that someone of her background would be contracted to act as an aggressor, until she reveals the flawless prosthetics that have taken the place of her arms. Certain people offer high money for individuals who seem like killing machines, and she has no say in whether or not that is what she is.

They are Farran Barnett and Titania of the Lotus Estate. An unlikely duo, rough approximations of fire and ice, though made a little more literal by their choice of ammunition. The former is dressed like a street dancer with his bare chest crisscrossed by scars, and the other in a freshly ironed black suit with matching black gloves.

Farran cricks his neck and yawns, while Titania adjusts her cuff for the sixth time in the last ten minutes. They're itching to get moving, but until their target makes a move, they are resigned to waiting in ambush atop their uncomfortable viewpoint.