picture prompt meme

[wolfofdunwall]

the picture prompt meme
leave a picture/pictures and i'll respond with a character of your choice (or, if you'd prefer, of my own choosing). or leave a comment and i'll respond with pictures.

Comments

for reineke and gothamventures

[wolfofdunwall]

one. two. three. four.

[zsaszle]

"Hi." A very informal greeting, but by no means unusual from Victor. He wasn't really the type to give long speeches or make a big announcement about how he'd caught him off-guard or something about how he shouldn't try to run. For one thing, the very visible guns he was wearing tended to do a lot of the talking for him. For another, he didn't really feel like threatening this man anyway. Seemed pointless.

But he did want to know where this was going.

"We could actually go inside." As dramatic as standing on a dark street was, this was Gotham. It was raining, he didn't like getting wet. So he pointed at a bar down the street with his thumb. "They make good drinks."

[wolfofdunwall]

What he should have known: if you're an assassin, there's no way of entering Gotham without attracting Victor Zsasz's attention. Especially not if you're already known to the man. Daud had assumed dimly that Zsasz would show at some point. What he hadn't counted on was that it'd happen so soon.

He'd been in the city, what, two hours, three? Half walking the streets, half scoping out loftier vantage points. Just getting a sense of some sliver of Gotham (noting potentially useful routes for escape, for general travel, for remaining more or less unnoticed) before seeking out a place to stay the night. He shouldn't have used the streets at all. Should've stayed high and away from where he could be found. Because now he was caught in a situation that spelled no good.

There was no getting around it; that much was clear. Or, well. He could've slowed time, blinked away, disappeared before Zsasz could fire any of those guns (probably, though the man was preternaturally quick with weaponry, or he was last Daud knew). Even that would only be delaying the inevitable, and it'd give Zsasz all the more reason to distrust him. Which seemed like a terrible idea. Daud had come to Gotham to fade into the woodwork, not to instigate rifts or get himself killed.

"Zsasz.

"Why not."

Buddy | Lisa The Joyful | (honey badger don't care, honey badger gaf)

[radostnaya_devushka]

[1 2 3]

i'm sorry buddy

[isfallingdown]

It's hard keeping track of anything anymore. If he'd ever known how to keep track, and really The Photojournalist couldn't say. He knows he's a (he thinks is a?) photojournalist, or he was, or he wanted to have been. He knows he's had the bandana around his head for a while. He knows there's someone very important somewhere around and somehow he'd wandered away from that very important person (or had he run off? why would he have done that?) and he has to find Kurtz as soon as possible even if the name spells trouble down his spine, even if he feels a little nauseous a little grateful a little awful just to think the name. He knows he's somewhere in the desert, though he's pretty sure he's never been to this part of the desert before and he's definitely certain that he has no idea how he got here in the first place.

The Photojournalist sits down by the cactus to think it out. Maybe his memory trouble's caused by something. Probably comes from um. Walking around in the sun too much or maybe not getting enough water. He's never been good at staying hydrated. Maybe he's been smoking too much? ...Nah, that can't be possible. It's probably the water thing. Man, he's got to drink more water. But where's he supposed to get that now?

He's looking around when he sees someone, a somewhat small someone. Can he approach the somehow? He stands, takes a few cautious steps toward the figure. "Hey, uh... Good morning?"

[radostnaya_devushka]

The Photojournalist doesn't look any different from the men in Olathe. This one just has the decency to wear a shirt. As for Buddy's appearance, she's clad her her usual poncho with a mask on her face, obscuring her feminine features and hair. At his question, she doesn't speak much at all, choosing to nod at his response.

She'll have to play everything by ear and sight.

Isolde, Lilith, Rosalie | OC | OTA | I'll take anybody ayyyy.

[puppet_mistressofhell]

[1 2 3]

idk where they're living but hey what the hell

[yesterdaysheadliner]

Oh, for god’s sake. There they go again with the noises.

Ever since the new people moved in next door, it’s been one big veritable orgy over there. Fine, fine, that may be an exaggeration; Dean doubts (maybe) that sex is involved, and it could be the noises are just the typical sounds of moving in. He doesn't know; he's never made that kind of a racket. And whatever the noises are, there's no getting around the fact that they're disturbing his peace of mind.

They'd arrived the other day, a large group of women, all piling into the rooms next door. He doesn't doubt there's plenty of space in there for them; his own apartment could easily house the members of a mid-sized jazz orchestra. Of course it doesn't. Dean lives alone, and likes it like that. It's the best way of ensuring peace and quiet.

Which he isn't getting now.

He gives a deep sigh as another crash (maybe not a crash so much as a dull thump, but it feels like a crash) shatters his silence. Well. Well, if those ladies want to make a circus of themselves and this entire floor, they're not going to do it without his objections.

In half a minute he's at their door. Dean gives four quick raps, then waits, arms crossed, ready to give an earful to whichever occupant responds.

don't mind the sentient nuclear zombie living next door... he don't mean any harm

[puppet_mistressofhell]

Twelve women make for a noisy, noisy, apartment, it can't really be avoided. (That's if you don't factor in the fact nearly all of them are nubile and sexually active, with others and among themselves.) Most of the time they are fortunate to live next to people to can't hear it, don't care, or are bribed easily to shut up.

At least the door is answered and a person comes out to greet Dean. A tall beautiful woman with supermodel-worthy looks with straight ink black hair and icey blue eyes answers coldly.

"What do you want?"

Isolde has never seen someone so ugly in her life.

Young!Genkai | Yu Yu Hakusho (or Team Albany!AU) | F/M | don't care

[youthful_psymaster]

[1 2 3]

1

[buttreset]

[ It's a fine day for a brisk walk! Michael finds time away from Hell to be, well, a bit of a relief frankly. For all he's come to find about humans and bestowing on them eternal damnation, he finds that the living are much more lively! Most blissfully unaware of their choices, he scurries around like an eager and rather large bird to absorb all the culture he can.

The he nearly plows into a woman with a rather clear message on her shirt. ]

Sorry!

[ He's quite loud with his apology. Though the demon has skidded to a halt in time to avoid collision, it doesn't stop him from scurrying around to face her and study her face. ]

I didn't know you had the dangling bits too. ...Aren't they usually in the front?

[youthful_psymaster]

[The collusion never happens, but Genkai senses Michael enough to back away herself and look at him with big eyes that at once look young and bright, but also old as all hell and look like they they could probe at whatever soul (or lack of it) a demon has.

The human woman is blank, but she's internally studying the man before with a keen mind. Demon. The Western Variety. Looks like a nerd. Aside from that, she's actually sort of calm.]

The shirt is a figure of speech... in my case at least.

Bill » everyone lives au

[ivegotmypride]

1, 2, 3

[readyoualecture]

He still dreams about her. Every night, he sees the Nancy who's not Nancy the Nancy who's beyond living and out for blood, his blood, or he dreams the not Nancy who's between his hands and dying or he dreams somehow both at once and there's no stopping himself and no stopping her and every night the world falls apart for those moments seeming hours and he knows what he's done the weight of what he's done and he can feel the skies come crashing in.

Still, when he bolts awake, it's not his own dreams that're responsible. It's Nance. (Hard to believe he's sharing a bed with her again hard to believe they're together again hard to believe she's here, she's here and she'd have him back, and somehow it all feels so natural, of course it does.) She's been having dreams of her own, seems like, tossing and kicking into him, almost like she's attacking something (or, yeah, or being attacked). This isn't the first time Bill's awakened to find her like this. The first time, then the second, he'd let her work through it, not certain he should interfere. Now, though... Maybe it's time to try a different tactic. Because she ain't calming down, and after his own dreams, this is... this is too close, too painful to watch.

He starts with a hand to her wrist, firm but as gentle as he can be."Nance? Nance, hey, Nance."

[ivegotmypride]

Nancy's always had nightmares. Since she was young, the devil himself had filled her dreams, with his kind smile and beady little eyes. When she got older, the dreams changed, other men would filter into them (always, always the men), and Bill, too, would become a fixture. Since the attack, he'd been there near every night.

Sometimes, the dreams weren't bad enough to wake her. She'd sleep through them and on to the next dream. She tried to keep them from Bill. She knew he had awful dreams as well, the reasons as to why she was sure she knew, but never dared ask for confirmation. She liked to think that her dreams had been better, since she started sleeping alongside him again.

Tonight, however, the dreams have become terrors, and Nancy thrashes about on their bed. She raises her arms to protect her face as she kicks out, fighting the phantom of the very man beside her. The one who's hand circles her wrist, and she cries out, her green eyes flying open as the scream is still on her breath. She's frozen there in the moonlight, eyes wide and unfocused, jaw slack. It's an awful thing, to awake from a nightmare to find you're still in it.

The Warden | Superjail! (or that bwe au) | OTA | ANYBODY

[prisonwonka]

[1 2 3]

dunno what he's doing here but (bwe au? fallout au? superjail verse? HMM)

[strategicbullshit]

"Hey, uh… Did you ever think about not being a total asshole? Just an honest question, no offense intended."

So maybe there’s some offense intended. Deacon’s heard plenty about the Warden, seen some of the damage for himself, and while the guy’s got the right idea about looking out for his people as a whole, most of his methods are, well, pretty gross. And all right, sure, maybe Deacon shouldn't come into the guy's office and talk to him like this, but sometimes you just have to grab your opportunity when it arrives.

Deacon's supposed to be delivering a message, but he can get to that in a minute. Don't want to lead off with the important stuff, or you might be dismissed before you can say what's really on your mind. What a tragedy that'd be.

for cannibalartist (not necessarily with daud; just using his to post)

[wolfofdunwall]

one. two. three. four.

3, idek man!

[conalma]

[ Traveling all day by foot would make most children weary. Laura has no option but to staying on the move. Even if she was capable of feeling winded by such distance, the thought of it would never enter her mind. The important thing was to get away. To keep moving. To find her friends.

Hunger does, however, present itself.

This brings her to the dumbstruck person before her doing more chattering than taking action. She finds no need to indulge this conversation other than shutting it down to return to her previous inquiry about food. She gives them the answer they're looking for. ]

Yes.

if the fallout commonwealth works as a setting? i dunnoooooo

[strategicbullshit]

[ Sooooo this kid's pretty to-the-point. ]

'Yes' you consider applesauce a food or 'yes' you think the current value of the Commonwealth bottlecap is deplorable? Oh, I know! Or, 'Yes, Mr. Deacon, you talk too much so you should really shut your mouth.' That's the one, isn't it? I can see it in your eyes.

[ He probably shouldn't be joking around with a kid, especially once as worn-out as this one looks. She looks like she's been on the road all day, and she can't be more than, what... 10, or... 13 or... Hell, he doesn't know how old kids are. Deacon knows life leaves a lot of people, a lot of young people, to fend for themselves. But that doesn't make it any less of a sad situation. ]

As long as you don't try passing applesauce off as a food, sure, I've got something to eat. [ Motioning for her to follow, he heads toward the low fire he'd built up, his bag and his rifle set nearby, a few carrots and a can of cram laid out near the flames. Deacon moves to his bag, begins digging around. ] Hold on. I've got some Instamash in here, if you'd rather have that. And, uh, half a box of Sugar Bombs. I had some bloafly but, you know, lunch.

August Marten | OC | Down 4 Everybody

[in_an_augustforest]

[1 2 3]

daud | dishonored (doto or rod)

[excultro]

one, two, three, four.

for wingsfordays

[wolfofdunwall]

((for this image prompt.))


[ The bastard has to die.

The god who’d given Daud his powers, who’d marked him and who once deigned to speak to Daud and whisper hints about the man’s importance, about his strength, about the mark he would dig into the world. The god who’d watched as Daud - known then as the Knife of Dunwall, an elite and widely renowned assassin - struck down people without reserve. Watched as Daud gathered coin for murder after murder, slitting throats and sloshing blood across the city. So many had died without needs; so many, deserving and otherwise, had been cut down because some rich bastard held a grudge. Because Daud had been open for hire. Because the Outsider had never said a word to stop Daud’s actions.

(The black-eyed bastard hasn’t spoken in years. Not since just before Daud left his home city, granted the mercy of his life and the punishment of exile. Daud doesn’t doubt that the Outsider’s been watching ever since - watching and smirking at the man he’d once marked - but there’s been no word from the god. Of course not; he’d abandoned Daud to his fate long ago, tired of him when Daud ceased to catch his interest, whatever the fuck that meant.)

For years, Daud had tried to put his past behind him. Tried to carve out some small life of his own, away from the press of others, living alone and filling his time however he could. Only what he’d done never ceased to haunt him. Only the memories of his hands soaked in blood never ended. And as the years passed, his nightmares only intensified, reminding him of what he’d done. What the black-eyed bastard could lead people to do.

It couldn’t happen again. Daud couldn’t let the Outsider mark anyone else, couldn’t let the bastard bestow further powers and egg his Chosen on to disastrous consequences. It was necessary for Daud to act.

It was necessary for Daud to kill the god.

He’d spent the next year and a half seeking out leads on artifacts and old magic that might allow him to end the bastard. It was slow going, especially since outside of Gristol - the island on which Dunwall was situated - the Outsider’s name was known only in scatters. Finally, though, Daud caught whispers of an artifact associated with the Outsider, a twin-bladed knife that might, might just spell the bastard’s end. The work now was to track the artifact down.

Which is how he finds himself in Gotham, navigating unfamiliar streets and pulling his hood up against the frequent drizzle of rain. It’s a city not wholly unknown to him, though he’s never visited before, knows the place only through stories and through old contacts. It’s a city full of shady dealings and scandal, destruction and danger, and Daud’s sources tell him that the next step toward finding the blade is in the city. So as soon as he arrives, he begins seeking out information.

What’s unpleasantly surprising to Daud is that even here, thousands of miles from Dunwall, he’s remembered. Which makes a sick kind of sense: no one shifts from legendary assassin to obscurity in an instant, or even in a lifetime. Much as Daud’s sometimes allowed himself to think otherwise. Much as he’s almost believed that his exile could render him unknown, his past deeds meaningless. As if he could erase the Knife of Dunwall by simply disappearing.

Though he doesn’t care for the fact of his renown, doesn’t care for the way skilled strangers and people he’s spoken with once, maybe twice watch as if they know him, know his motives, there’s something to be said for notoriety. The weight of his name opens avenues of information, gives him access to people who know the city and keep track of its most valuable contacts.

And soon enough these contacts lead him to a bridge in some far corner of the city, the time ticking well past midnight. Thick fog crawls through a sickly green light, the water below the bridge thrashing in a soft rush. Daud’s supposed to be meeting someone here, a man claiming to hold knowledge of the twin-bladed knife’s recent whereabouts, claiming to know something worthwhile about its recent owner. But for the moment, Daud seems to be alone in an uneasy near-quiet.

He lingers near the middle of the bridge’s walkway, a man in his early fifties, black hair going silver, a prominent scar gashed down the right side of his face. Though well-worn, his clothing is chosen with precision, severely cut in black and red, not quite matching any style known to Gotham. As he waits, holding himself warily, he’s aware of every sound around him, every flicker of movement and low-lying shadow. Doesn’t like the choice of meeting spot, but hadn’t been able to swing anything other.

There’s movement nearby and he tenses, expression remaining impassive. It could be no one. Could be the contact. Could be trouble. For the moment, all he can do is wait and see, melting halfway into the bridge’s shadows, watching without apparent concern. ]

[wingsfordays]

Getting a text from The Red Hood out of the blue didn't exactly sit well with Tim. Even though he and Jason had been on good terms lately, the guy was a firecracker ready to blow. No, more like a bomb. Ticking and ticking and biding its time until there was a city large enough to take the brunt of his explosion. And Tim didn't want to be part of that.

But Jason's intel was clean, and though he could question why Jason of all people wanted to help him, the fact was the lead was a good one. The so-called Knife of Dunwall was in Gotham.

All these years, Tim had thought the stories about Dunwall and its feared assassin were just that -- stories. Rumors. Fantasies. It was like Batman, in a way -- meant to scare and keep everyone away. In Batman's case, though, he was a very real, very terrifying nightmare in and outside of Gotham; why then would the Knife of Dunwall be any different? It wasn't like Tim had never met an assassin -- heck, he'd trained with a few of them. But The Knife of Dunwall hadn't been seen in years, the ghost of a legend in the shadows, and Tim wasn't a believer in ghost stories.

But color him curious enough to follow Jason's leads.

The most interesting thing about the whole situation was that the leads themselves were things Tim would have followed up on either way. Terrifying men with terrifying aims of destroying cities and taking over the world, holocausts in their wake. In the center of it all, a dangerous gang from Japan that had recently infiltrated Gotham's underbelly and taken control of the East and South sides. Using the so-called Twin Katana, another legend of lore, to inflict doom and misery upon any enemies who stood in their way.

In Red Robin attire, Tim crouched on one of the dips in the bridge, watching. Below him, all he saw was an adult male, 50s or so, in the middle of the bridge. The facial recognition software in Tim's cowl worked overtime to try and place him, but the fog of the night wasn't helping. When he finally got a clear look and it registered Knife of Dunwall, Tim's eyes widened.

That. That was him? He didn't look so imposing. The only thing that could have given away his past might have been the stiffness in his shoulders when Tim's cape caught the wind. Tim grinned a little. Could he hear that? Very interesting.

Modern or odd au idk

[not_desade]

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