but not the house pet. no, the mere rabbit lives on.

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trivia

character sheets

^{(albeit somewhat outdated)}

FREE ME WITH SERVITUDE

An innate people pleaser (who rarely pleases anyone), Devon longs for purpose; one he is convinced he can only find in others. Whether as a courier, retainer, paper pusher or personal attendant, he’ll happily work wherever he’s useful — as long as it's free of violence.

THE BROKEN & DAMNED

For being such a soft and messy thing— a pacifist at heart— Devon often finds himself associating with violent or otherwise trying individuals, usually in hopes of changing their ways. Befriending emotional renovation projects is a favorite pastime, and a poor habit. Show yourself in any way ‘broken’, and he’ll come with gold to try and fix up the cracks — whether wanted, deserved, or not.

GARLEAN SYMPATHIZER

For his ignorance about the outside world, Devon has a curious interest in Garlemald and its people. Whether a fellow enthusiast of the language or someone with less than savory opinions of the people, you're sure to get a rise out of him upon mentioning the topic. Of course, this also means that the man has a positive inclination towards most of the nation's people — whether deserving of it or not. Use or abuse it as you wish!

YOU WEREN'T MEANT TO SEE THAT

Curious, inquisitive — prying. Devon has a knack for getting himself into affairs way beyond his understanding. Did he express curiosity about things he shouldn't have? Perhaps he overheard or saw something he'd be hard-pressed to ignore? It wouldn't be out of character for him to get involved where he shouldn't — willingly or not.

SKULKER OF THE BRUME

In the lowlight of the Brume, someone far too bright-eyed stands pressed to a wall. Despite the rapidfire head shakes and stuttered attempts at dissuasion, said someone’s about to get slogged, mugged or worse. Go be the guy’s hero! Or perhaps you're the one ruining his day.

Quiet the Green Word

Raised as a tribal viera, Devon has since left home through bitter circumstance. He claims he holds no pride in his roots, and yet he still slips into native tongue when alone. With the woods he always sought to escape from now behind him, he can't help but miss home.In many ways, he'd wish to reject the teachings that saw him unfit as a kit. In other ways, he looks for redemption. A way to reconcile with all that was his childhood, and perhaps even reconnect with kin.Should you be a Warder, he's in a spot in his life where he's desperate for guidance, albeit reluctant, perhaps, to receive it.

Little Vigilante

"Nobody is fit to be both the judge, jury and executioner. Nobody."In his eyes, dark knights perform little more than vigilante justice. Poor past experiences have left him with some scorn, and yet he can't help but feel a morbid curiosity around the subject.Most of their actions are morally dubious— if not wrong— but is their intention not to make the world a better place? Someplace kinder, just like he wishes it was? Dissuade him from the concept, or persuade him it's the only way.

Magitek Tinkering

Although his knowledge is on par with that of a curious child, Devon holds a keen interest in magitek and the ways it could go used to better the world. Unfortunately, he has neither the resources nor the mentor required to pursue such an interest. Perhaps this is you?

Easter EGgs

this carrd contains a bunch of lil' easter eggs hidden in words and images! most of these go highlighted in some way once hovered over, so keep an eye out!

if you're like me and have lots of dust bunnies clogging up your brain, but a desperate need to know everything and anything,
here's a cheat sheet:

Lamentations of an Overgrown Kit

It was a horribly discreet thing, the way he grieved— the way he’d been taught to. Narrow and cold were the confines in which he was allowed to express his distress. His frustration and sorrow.There was a certain violence to his quiet in the aftermath of it all. Normally so very quick to fill the silence, he didn’t seem to mind its looming weight— his thoughts too diffuse to go strung together. A fleeting mist, impossible to hold. Any words of comfort would dissolve on his tongue, any wisdoms get picked apart. There was nothing for none to say, except perhaps apologies and repentance.

Ebb, now

When there are no claws that graze against his skin, Devon peeks back through the corner of his eye. Ah, his hand has simply gone unnoticed. With Seneca focused on other things—surely drowning in thoughts just as deep as the waters below the bobbing pier— Devon pulls into a small, unseen smile. Off-set by the furrow to his brow, it's something worrisome yet fond.Had he the ability, he’d chase each doubt and woe away with fire and fang. He’d tell Seneca that a friend was someone you wished to sacrifice for, and that sacrificed for you, too. That no voluntary weight could be considered a burden. That blood washes away with water— with repentance and effort and tears—, and that together they would scrub beneath nail and claw. No ask was impossible. Even should they never complete the journey, the ask alone was not impossible.Alas, he had no fangs to bear, and a penchant for remaining in the dark. Shooting arrow after arrow, hoping for flint to run against stone and create the spark necessary for a flame to guide him.Two sets of footsteps turn to one, and Devon cranes his neck back to check on his companion. The upward curve to his lips withers fast the moment Seneca shrivels onto the ground, eyes wet and breath shaking.

The Rabbit's Burrow

Frosted windows weep meeting the morning sun. When the winds lay still and the clouds stay parted, Coerthan hostility turns to quiet beauty. Crystalline and perfect, rather than another plain tainted through war. Imperial scars have gone buried beneath the snow, love turned spite left as draconic remnants; frozen reminders of the lengths to which grief had gone.Inside woodworks rarely traveled, timber has gone fashioned into a humble cabin. Winter shrubs stand potted by the doorframe, saplings struggling to take root. Rime makes sneaking peeks into a homelife Seneca has yet to see a tricky thing. But through topmost edges, he may spy snippets of sentimental clutter. Teabags not stowed away, knitwork unfinished and a gramophone with only one record.Dawn shines through the upper level to douse Devon in its light, still fast asleep amidst a loft of boxes not yet unpacked. The clothes of yesterday have gone folded onto a nearby chair, his covers kicked aside and pelts slowly drooping to the floor.A linen shirt that drapes past half his thigh has turned too warm, and yet he insists on laying buried amidst both pillows and duvets. In place of other hearts to seek, one such bundle has gone claimed and pressed against his chest. The mess, the closest echo to a childhood surrounded by bodies soft and warm.

Await me, my friend

Where she sought to eradicate the what ifs, he'd tried to make himself comfortable. If only his expectations went lower, he figured things would hurt a lot less. He wouldn't be quite as disappointed with his lack of progress, should he expect none– should he deem himself simply inept and take it as truth. If he didn't expect basic respect, then all the jabs that he suffered, joking or not, they wouldn't come to sting. If he didn't expect her to come home every night, he'd be less disappointed.
Less fearful, less concerned.If he expected chaos to follow each moment calm, he’d feel more prepared.If only he saw it all as a privilege, instead.
Had he not many things to feel lucky for?Could he not make himself into somebody happy?
Someone satisfied and at peace, and not..."A little tragedy."Was it not all a part of what she'd told him, too? To take things as they came, and appreciate their incremental progress. And so, tried he did. And, in a way... with success. In some part surrendering himself to the fate which he did not believe in– for such a concept seemed far too cruel to him to exist– he’d allowed himself to bask in the respite offered by their good days. They were fortunate moments of rest where his head broke the surface of water to savour each breath, before the lake would freeze over again, its ice thicker than ever before.In the wake of their friend's disappearance, the world hadn’t so much as stumbled before it moved on, and given enough time, so would he. He'd scrape whatever remains were left of stability, of trust and fond memories, off that desert brick and back into the hollow that'd opened in his chest.Eventually, filled.
Not fully, perhaps.
No, that'd be impossible.
But enough so to carry on....He’d hoped.Yet they’d keep cropping up.
Flames of hope he'd stomped out, embers that hissed in displeasure– in retaliation to his mental defeat, as he’d run out of tears to shed over the thing.“We’ll get our answers. And we’ll help him find his answers, too. We’ll rest, bide our time.”He’d piece himself back together.
With tape, after tape, after tape, he’d cover the cracks.
Just one more time.If only to answer Sev's call.

[ the fool ]

^{"haven't i given enough?}

[ you can break me, too ]

^{"take me with you"}

[ friendly dark ]

^{"will we ever go back?}

[ held together with string ]

^{"he looked in the wrong place for redemption"}

i want to be a moth that made it.