⠀ᅟᅟᅟᅟ ݁ ⠀.⠀ ♱ ⠀༝ 𝖆𝖑𝖑⠀𝘩̵𝘰̵𝘱̵𝘦̵⠀𝐚bandon,⠀ᅟᅟᅟᅟᅟᅟᅟᅟᅟᅟ𝑦𝑒⠀𝑤𝘩𝑜⠀𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫⠀𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢.
Joined June 2026
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he can be found on the back of the parish, tending to the bed of flowers.
she’s stopping by to pay @hellclerics of sorts. and make time for a quick little prayer.
sitting outside out of the parish, hands resting in his lap as he watches the expansion of road before him.
loneliness has crept its crawls under his skin. his eternal haunting is to be alone.
there is a charm to armand that john cannot rightly tell whether it is vampiric or not ; the stranger that is a vampire seems to have abilities far beyond his comprehension — but so does the devil lurking within the corners of his scarred mind.
he watches the crimson ...
... fill the mug in a steady pace, armand’s presence keeping him centred. the pain remains, which prevents his skin to stitch together by devilish thread and needle.
so long as john ward feels pain, he would bleed.
“it is right i did not know this evil would affect you. ...
how unexpected, to have predator apologise to his own prey. john is not as naive to believe armand is harmless, nor that the angelic peaks and valleys that construct their face cradles real sanctification.
yet john, of all men under the cloth, knows the weight of ...
... bloody saints.
he exhales softly through parted lips, usually neat tresses falling across his forehead as pain subdues, now a steady throb rather than a heavy pounding.
“this devil of mine cannot allow for anything other than despair, i’m afraid.” he watches crimson ...
the parish cradles the endless stains of the once called stigmata from john ward’s veins.
exhaustion is too simple a word to describe his state, truly.
suffering feels religious if you do it right.
though john winces at the pain of the cut, his gaze watches armand’s features instead, observant of the way light glimmers across their features, how the sun does not bother the flesh of a child of the night.
it is exhilarating ...
... to be free of the facade of human for a moment — to be able to face the gory side of his own existence, to have the devil that lives in him have it's own relief as well.
“yes.” he nods, a dry swallow as he watches armand still, in a trance. their beauty is ...
“i am only lucky that my own beast do not feed from anyone else but myself.”
perhaps not luck, but john ward always had a penchant for self-flagelation. the knife is stored back to its place, making way to the table as he takes a seat across armand, fingers working on ...