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ProcaPro

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  1. ProcaPro
    Naya Barakat Al-Jabir holds the missive in gloved hand. Rememberance comes to her, a soft hum in her throat. She reads it once... then twice. Thrice, before the missive is gingerly folded in her hands. She tucks it into her pack, alongside other missives -some so old they near crumble at touch- safely cradled in the leather. "No doubt. Yera will deny, as always. But she cannot forever... Trouble on every end these days." Naya grabs a couple more, perhaps to distribute, then continues on. She keeps what she knows to herself, for now. She isn't a traitor, Yera still grants her a place to live, though not close as they were once. But still, Naya remembers.
  2. ProcaPro
    A cold sweat overtook the awoken woman, staring at the ceiling. Alone. Her eyes wide as she tries to process what she has seen. Her mind, forever plagued with thoughts of people and places she both is in awe of and terrified of. Shaky hands come to her face, covering her vision. Dark. Comforting. Naya Barakat Al-Jabir knew that cat. One she had seen. She knew its master too. She wondered what would become of her, there in forced darkness behind her hands. Of those she cares for, those she loves. Those she misses near violently and yet wants to run from. Hitches come to her breath, and the Angel weeps. Such a cruel and fitting name to be called. Naya composes herself, and pulls herself to write letters from her bed, haunted, internally empty. She can still see the faces in her mind.
  3. ProcaPro
    Naya Barakat Al-Jabir retrieves the news with a somberness. She hadn't really liked Poppiya. She was not family, she was not truly a friend, she had disappeared for years, abandoning people Naya herself cared about with seemingly, little care herself. But still, Naya had seen Anatoliy search for her. She had helped in the effort, she had seen him tear himself up over Poppiya's disappearance, assured himself she was alive despite Naya trying to get him to move on. So, she sits, and she writes. Condolences were to be made, even if she hadn't cared much for the woman. For Ilya, at least, she could be kind to her memory. Aleksey Godunov was nearly 6 when he had fully met Poppiya, his own mother. Now, at the mere age of 10, she was gone again. For a short time did the boy know her beyond statuettes, letters and paintings. He vaguely remembers, once, being told he could meet her through a painting, that he could pick anywhere to hang it just a few Siant's days before he finally met her. And now she was gone again, and this time she wasn't just "far away", under disguise unbeknownst to her own son and trying to live a new life. Something Aleksey still doesn't understand. No, she was gone, and though Aleksey had adjusted quickly to her coming home, he wasn't sure how he'd adjust to her leaving it.
  4. ProcaPro
    Naya Barakat Al-Jabir rolls the news of death around in her head, her single eye cast upwards towards the sky as she lay in a field of roses. A secluded place, a place of peace and contemplation. And now a place to wonder. Her eye closes. There's a moment, a singular spark of a moment, where an emotion bubbles up other than satisfaction at hearing of the man's death. It takes a moment for the older woman to identify the emotion. Sorrow? No. Not worry either. Then it clicks. Pity. She felt pity, and the realization made her scowl to the sky. "Wherever you are, Lanre," She begins, a metal hand lifting from the grass by her side to rest over her heart. "I am sorry that I still wish you misery. I wish I could say otherwise." With that, the grizzled soldier gets to her feet and whistles for her horse, off to write letters, and offer hollow condolences.
  5. ProcaPro
    Aleksey sits on the floor at the library in Verskaya, surrounded by books and yet reading only one poem out of a collection. He doesn't fully understand what it means, too young to understand the battle or the loss, but he memorizes the description of his mother either way.
  6. ProcaPro
    A young Aleksey Godunov gazes up at the paper tucked away in the corner of a little garden. Barely five years old, he reaches up to grab it, but simply can't. As such, he runs off to tell his father about the paper with pretty handwriting.
  7. ProcaPro
    FULL NAME: Naya Barakat Al-Jabir AGE: 35 PRIOR EXPERIENCE: (if any) 12 years of experience as a soldier. METHOD OF CONTACT: ProcrastinatorProfessional (discord) ProcrastinatePro (Minecraft user)
  8. ProcaPro

    ProcrastinatePro

    ProcaPro posted an application in Accepted

    You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” ((How do you respond?)) Naya raises a brow, her feet faltering at the entrance of the tent. The silence is thick before she heeds the hag and steps further into the tent. She sits herself awkwardly onto the cushion and crosses her legs. Naya keeps her eyes on the woman, tense as she speaks, "You seem to know my face, but that's where your knowledge ends is it?" She stopped a moment, brows tight before continuing, "My name is Naya. My family is Qalasheen, though the Kingdom of Bailan has been my home. My parents brought their trade and skills there long before me, and settled long before me," A pause took hold. Naya has a look on her face filled with clear apprehension at saying much more. Still, she settles in more and tries to relax and trust the woman. "I am clearly not a trader. I am searching to learn the ways of a warrior, a knight. I want to protect others, the helpless. I wasn't able to once when I was young and now I can, now I must for the sake of my father's work and my mother's grave. This... scar on my face is proof enough of it I'd say. It was... bandits on the road. I was a child and too young to help and... when attacked I ran. And she died, and it was my fault," Naya shakes her head, not enjoying the reliving of the event she described. "I can't bring myself to not dedicate myself to helping those like my mother. I apologize, I'm sure such a story is common to you... Still you've listened to the events of my life without complaint. Shokran. Now I must ask, what told you to expect me?" She clasps her hands together with a lighter heart and a curiosity to sate as she turns the conversation back to the strange hag with an eagerness.
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