WARNING

This character profile features violent themes. DO NOT PROCEED if you are sensitive to topics involving crime, knifework, or blood.

#001 ON HIS NATURE

Ilya Sjadarwesv is a man defined by his quiet, aloof nature. He is often distant, indifferent to the world around him, and rarely engages in conversation unless it pertains to something he finds fascinating. His focus is razor-sharp, but it is fixated on one thing alone: the beauty of the human body and the artistry of a clean cut. To him, the body is not just flesh, but a masterpiece to be carefully dissected and admired. The precision of each incision, the way the body yields to the blade, fills him with a strange, serene satisfaction. Ilya feels little for the world or the people in it, but when it comes to the act of taking a body apart, he is utterly absorbed. His work is a form of art that he approaches with quiet reverence and meticulous care.At times, the sheer beauty of his work can overwhelm him, so much so that it brings him to tears. The act of taking a body apart, whether in reverence for its form or the perfection of the cut, stirs something deep within him, a connection to the art he creates that transcends mere detachment. Ilya feels little for the world or the people in it, but when it comes to his craft, he is utterly absorbed, his emotions spilling over in rare, poignant moments that only add to the solemnity of his work.

#002 LOVE AND HATE

LOVE

Ilya has a deep, unwavering love for his craft. There is nothing more satisfying to him than the perfection of a clean cut. He enjoys the precision and artistry involved in his work, often losing himself. He also has a surprising fondness for peach juice, finding its sweetness to be a rare and comforting indulgence. Ilya is meticulous about his tools, taking great care in maintaining their sharpness and cleanliness; there is a deep satisfaction in the smooth, flawless operation of a well-maintained blade.

HATE

Ilya is not fond of chaos or disorder, especially in his surroundings. He loathes untidy spaces and becomes agitated when his tools are left unclean or disorganized. He also has little patience for people who speak without purpose, finding idle chatter to be a waste of time and energy. While he is not particularly social, he has a distaste for unnecessary emotional displays, especially in others; he views such outbursts as unrefined and undignified. He dislikes the unpredictability of people, especially those who act impulsively or make decisions without careful consideration. Above all, Ilya cannot stand anything that disrupts the quiet and precision of his work, and any interruptions to his focus are met with irritation.

FEAR

Despite his calm, collected exterior, Ilya harbors a deep fear of imperfection. The idea of a cut gone wrong—messy, imprecise, or flawed—terrifies him. He has spent so much of his life seeking control over his work and surroundings that the thought of failing in his craft, even in the smallest way, is an anxiety he can scarcely bear. He also fears being discovered for his darker, more sinister role behind the scenes. The idea that his quiet life could be upended by exposure is a constant, underlying source of tension for him.On a more trivial note, Ilya is inexplicably terrified of thunderstorms. The unpredictability of the storm, the flashing light and the crashing sound, sends a shiver down his spine. While it may seem an odd fear for someone so calm and composed, the sheer chaos of it unsettles him, reminding him of the uncontrollable and untidy forces of nature that he so deeply despises.

#003 ON OLENNA YMIR

Ilya Sjadarwesv’s feelings toward Olenna Ymir are a curious blend of reluctant tolerance and quiet indifference, though he does not deny that she provides certain... usefulness to his life. They were born during the same breeding cycle, a fact that ties their fates together in a way that neither of them can escape. For Ilya, this connection is more an unfortunate reminder of the past than anything meaningful, yet it lingers, and Olenna’s persistent presence is a daily reminder of that bond.Olenna’s impulsiveness and obsessive nature irritate him, and he can never quite understand why she is so fixated on him. Her abandonment of her village to track him down seemed an unnecessary display of devotion, one that Ilya neither sought nor wanted. He finds her unpredictability unsettling, the way she clings to him with such fervor, and her emotional displays only serve to frustrate him further. However, her obsession, as much as it disturbs him, also serves a practical purpose. She has proven useful in ways that Ilya cannot simply disregard. Her determination and single-minded focus make her an ideal tool when he requires assistance in matters that require an extra pair of hands...or someone who will act without hesitation.Despite the discomfort she causes him, Ilya does not push Olenna away. He is keenly aware of her utility and, in his quiet way, has come to accept her presence. There is no rush to rid himself of her entirely, as her devotion, while tiresome, has its place in his meticulously ordered world. Her obsession, though irritating, might prove to be an asset in the long run, and Ilya, ever the pragmatist, is not one to dismiss potential benefits easily.In truth, Ilya does not know what to make of Olenna. He cannot feel the same depth of attachment that she seems to have for him, but he recognizes that their fates are intertwined in ways neither of them can escape. For now, he tolerates her, cautiously aware that her place in his life may be one of both complication and utility, an imperfect balance that he is unwilling to disturb unless absolutely necessary.

#004 ON THE PAST

Ilya Sjadarwesv was born in the Skatay Mountain forest range, in the remote Viera village of Ymir. From a young age, he exhibited an unsettling fascination with knives and dissection, often drawn to the intricacies of the body rather than the practical aspects of hunting. While his peers and mentors in the village prided themselves on utilizing every part of a hunt with reverence and efficiency, Ilya’s obsession with the aesthetics of a clean cut and the study of anatomy led to unnecessary waste. His methods, though precise, were seen as wasteful in a society that valued resourcefulness and respect for life.Frowned upon by those around him, Ilya’s disconnection from the traditions of his people grew over time. The harsh realities of life as a wood warder, constantly hunting and surviving in the unforgiving forest, only deepened his desire for something more predictable. Seeking a life of control, he left Ymir behind, abandoning his village to pursue a different path. Ilya eventually found his way to Ul'dah, where he became an apprentice in the butcher’s trade, honing his craft in a more structured environment. There, he found solace in the precise, almost artistic nature of butchery, where the act of dissection was not only accepted but revered for its skill and beauty.Though he keeps to the shadows of Ul'dah’s bustling streets, Ilya continues to grapple with the dark aspects of his nature, finding comfort in the quiet, controlled world of knives, flesh, and clean cuts. Yet, his past in Ymir is never far behind, and the memory of those who scorned him lingers, shaping the man he is today.

#005 HOOKS

A FELLOW ARTIST (OR RIVAL)

Ilya's skills with a blade are unparalleled, but not everyone is impressed by precision. Perhaps a fellow butcher or artist? Someone who also sees their craft as a form of art...might find his methods intriguing... or a threat. A rivalry may bloom, or perhaps they can bond over their shared passion for perfection.

THE UNKNOWING CLIENT

Ilya’s reputation as a humble apprentice is well-known. However, those who need a... more specialized service might find themselves in his quiet, professional hands. What happens when an unsuspecting client asks for a simple task, only to realize they’ve come to someone with much darker skills?

THE NOSY INVESTIGATOR

Not all is as it seems in Ul'dah, and some have begun to suspect that bodies aren’t always vanishing for simple reasons. An investigator or curious adventurer might begin looking into strange disappearances or unexplainable events, their path inevitably leading to Ilya. Will they uncover his secret, or be silenced before they get too close?

A STUBBORN APPRENTICE OR APPRENTICE-WANNABE

A younger, more inexperienced apprentice, perhaps someone eager to learn, may approach Ilya, seeking to learn the craft of butchery from the mysterious man. Ilya’s aloof nature might frustrate them, but perhaps they sense the depth of his skill and are determined to win his approval.

A POTENTIAL LOVE INTEREST (FASCINATION OR DISGUST)

Ilya’s cold exterior hides a passion few understand, and those who dare to dig deeper might find themselves either fascinated or horrified by the raw intensity he brings to his craft. A potential love interest could be drawn to his quiet intensity, or perhaps repelled by the cold nature of his work, leading to a complex dynamic.

A COLLECTOR OF ODDITIES OR UNUSUAL OBJECTS

Ilya’s tendency to see the human body as an art form might attract the interest of someone who collects unusual or rare items. Perhaps they seek to procure something he’s worked on or even convince him to ‘preserve’ certain pieces of his work for display.

A FORMER VICTIM (OR SOMEONE WHO KNOWS TOO MUCH)

Someone who’s seen too much, or perhaps even narrowly escaped one of Ilya’s grim tasks, might cross his path. This person could either hold a grudge or seek revenge, or perhaps they’re simply trying to blackmail him into doing something dangerous. Ilya would need to decide if this person is a threat... or just another piece to be 'cleaned up.'

A PHILOSOPHER OR INTELLECTUAL

Someone who enjoys discussing the ethics of the human body, anatomy, or art may find themselves intrigued by Ilya’s outlook on his craft. Are they fascinated by his perspective or horrified by the way he views his work? Their deep conversations might lead to an unexpected connection...or clash.

A CUSTOMER WITH A SECRET

Ilya may have a regular customer, someone who needs specific cuts or meats for reasons that seem strange or suspicious. Perhaps they have a hidden agenda, and Ilya becomes unknowingly involved in something larger than he anticipated.

AN ALLY IN THE SHADOWS (SHARED DARK SECRETS)

Another figure from the shadows? Perhaps a fellow member of the criminal underworld or someone who deals in more... morally ambiguous business? They might find a kindred spirit in Ilya. Their mutual understanding of secrecy and precision could form the basis of an alliance, or even a dangerous friendship.

#006 OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION

DISCLAIMER

Please be aware that Ilya Sjadarwesv is a character with a dark, mature nature. His story involves themes of violence, body disposal, and other unsettling topics. As such, I request that only individuals who are 21 or older engage in roleplay with this character. Additionally, while the character's dark side may be explored in depth, erotic roleplay is strictly off the table unless explicitly discussed beforehand. I value respectful and consensual interactions and expect all roleplay partners to approach the content with maturity and understanding of the character's complexities.

#003.5 ỏ̷̪͉̹̺̾̎͊͂̈́̊̍͝ ̷̠̃̈́̏̾̋͂̆̾̇͘l̶̢̢̜̭̪͕̻͙̀͐͛̍̃͘͜ ̵̼͇͚̤͍̠̓͐̾͠e̸̛̯̦̼̮͕͖͉̬͊͛̈́̏̏ ̷̡̛̛̘͋́͋̅̓͛̎͘n̸͉͍̈́̌̑̍̐̐̈́͑͆ ̵̰̮̩͖͎̻̓͑͋n̸̬̦͍̺͓͚͛̔͊̄̒̌̔͜ ̵̛̛̣̳̪̞̋̏̑̋͜ả̴͈͓̱̋̓

Day 7, 12th Moon, 7th Umbral Era

I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.Olenna Ymir. She’s like a storm I can’t outrun, and I can’t decide if I want to get away or let it consume me. She follows me like a shadow, unrelenting, and I can’t..I cₐₙ'ₜ—make sense of it. I’ve tried. I ₕₐᵥₑ. I’ve thought it was an infatuation, a passing fancy that might fade with time. But no. She’s here, ₐₗwₐyₛ here, watching, waiting, with those eyes like she’s studying me—always studying me as though I’m something important.And the worst part? She ₑₓₚₑcₜₛ me to let her stay. I’ve tried to push her away, tried to ignore her, tried to be distant and cold, but she won’t budge. I thought maybe a few harsh words would shoo her off, but no. She just... stays. As though she believes she has a right to be near me, a claim on me that I’ve never given her.I don’t understand why. I don’t understand ₕₑᵣ.But damn it, there’s something I can’t deny. Her presence...her ₒbₛₑₛₛᵢₒₙ—it’s useful. It’s... useful, and I hate myself for acknowledging it. There are things I need done, things that would be impossible to handle on my own, and Olenna... she does them without question. Without complaint. She’s efficient, coldly efficient, like a well-oiled machine, and I don’t have to ask. She just knows what I need, what I want, before I do. It’s almost as though she can read my thoughts, anticipate every move, every decision, and somehow she does it all in silence, never asking for anything in return.If I need something from someone, Olenna makes it happen. If I need information, she has it before I even know what I’m looking for. And that damn devotion. It’s not just loyalty; it’s a tool. It’s like having a dagger that will never dull, always sharp, always ready. In this world, that kind of... obedience is invaluable. I should be grateful, ₛₕₒᵤₗdₙ'ₜ ᵢ??And yet.And yet I am not. I feel... suffocated. It’s not just that she’s always there, always watching—it’s the weight of it. I don’t know why she’s doing this. I’ve never done anything to earn it. She should not be this way, and yet she is.This morning, she handed me something. Just a scrap of paper, barely more than a few wrinkled folds. When I opened it, I saw those three words scrawled across it, as though she had written them in a frenzy:“ᴵ ᵇᵉˡᵒⁿᵍ ʰᵉʳᵉ.”I belong here? With me? Why? Why me? It’s maddening. There’s no reason for it, no logic behind it, and yet I cannot—cₐₙₙₒₜ—ignore it anymore.I should be grateful, right? I should be grateful for her obsession, her devotion, her relentless loyalty. It is useful. It makes things easier. I don’t have to do everything myself. But then why does it feel like a cage? Why does it feel like the walls are closing in on me every time I see her standing there, always with that look on her face, like she knows something I don’t?She belongs here? Does she? Or is it just that she refuses to leave?I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to stop her, and I don’t know if I want to. But I need to understand her. I need to understand what drives her, because it’s getting harder to breathe with her around.🅸 🅽🅴🅴🅳 🆃🅾 🅺🅽🅾🆆.

#001.5 ĭ̶̢̫͙̳͙̿͠t̴̻̽̎̍̊͋̂͘͝'̴̭̻̘͆̌s̶͖̳͍̆ ̷̝̼̹͓̫̜͕̳́̔͂̀̉̽̑͌ȧ̴̧̲̱̼͈͉̣r̷͙̮̻̜̩̻͂̈́̇̓͂̂͝t̸͕̪̤̥̃̔̈͘ ̷̛̜͉͕̼͈̈́͂̍̒̐̋͜t̴̹̜̎̊͑o̸͓̻͇͂̌̃̇̈́̈́ ̵̡̜͙͚̯̼͘͜͝m̸̬̥̭̝̥͓͙͋̔e̸̻̐̈́́͆͐̆͝

Day 31, 2nd Moon, 7th Umbral Era

I know who I am. I’m no great man, no one to admire or envy. I’m a butcher’s apprentice, and that’s all I need to be. There’s peace in it. Peace in the steady rhythm of the blade, in the way it sinks through flesh with a clean, sure stroke. Order. Precision. Predictability. That’s my world. It’s a world where things make sense, where everything falls into its proper place.Each piece has its role, its purpose. There’s no room for chaos here. The meat falls away in neat cuts, no waste, no mess. Just the cold satisfaction of separating what should be separated. The knife feels like an extension of my hand, and I like it that way. I can control it, control every slice, every movement. The world doesn’t always make sense, but the cleaver does. The saw does. The way the bones crack with the right pressure..it’s predictable. It’s real.But it’s more than just control. There’s something... beautiful in it. Something almost sacred. The way a perfectly sharp knife slides through sinew, the graceful way the joints give way to your touch, the elegance of a clean cut. It’s like sculpting, like drawing a fine line in marble, but with flesh. With each movement, I’m shaping something. cᵣₑₐₜᵢₙg something...out of what was once chaotic and wild.It’s art. Not the kind you hang on a wall or gaze at from a distance, but art just as visceral, just as pure. The way the blade moves, the way the meat falls away, it’s a dance between control and chaos, and when it’s done right... it’s ₚₑᵣfₑcₜ. I can lose myself in it. There’s a rhythm to the work, a flow that pulls me in and makes the world outside fade. The knife in my hand, the feel of the cuts—it all makes sense. It's the one thing that feels like it belongs.I don’t need anything else. Not fame, not affection, not... dᵢₛₜᵣₐcₜᵢₒₙₛ. I’ve never needed anything beyond what I can control. It’s simple. Clean. Efficient.But then, maybe that's not enough, is it? Because when I’m alone with the work, when I’ve got nothing but the meat and the blade... I feel something more. A deeper hunger. A desire to create something beyond what’s needed, something more perfect than what’s expected. It’s not a dark thing, not a twisted thing. It’s a passion. A need to shape, to carve, to transform the raw, to make something magnificent out of it.And that, I think, is why I keep at it. It’s the only thing that makes sense in a world that’s so damn 🅼🅴🆂🆂🆈.

#002.5 k̷̤͍̳͎̒̐̈͑͐͜͝ę̷̞̠͈̹̓͋͂͊̄̐ẻ̴̥̱̬̤̼̐̋̓̇͆͊͌̕͜p̷̡̢͔̫̫͔̥̑͋͋̑̐̓ ̸̱̠͗́̒̑͛̌̊͘͘ȏ̵̡̩̦͙̯̙̥͚̍̏͂͒͒͝͠ŗ̷̲̺̹͈̤̫̲͐̅̔͜͝d̴͉̝͉̟̟̫̃̊̎̏e̶̲̝͚͗̃̈́̉́͐͋̃̆͝ṟ̶̻̻͛̚

Day 11, 4th Moon, 7th Umbral Era

There are things I know. Things I can count on. The blade, the precise angle of the cut, the smooth glide of a knife through flesh. There is cₒₘfₒᵣₜ in it all. It’s why I do what I do. The world doesn’t always bend to my will, but when I stand in front of a slab of meat, the cleaver in my hand, everything becomes... ᵣᵢgₕₜ. I can make it right.Nothing gives me more satisfaction than a clean cut, the kind that leaves no trace, no mess. It’s a thing of beauty, and I can lose myself in it. It’s perfect. It’s pure. I know the precision of every motion, the grace of every movement. Each slice, each separation, it’s like painting with a blade, shaping something out of nothing. There’s no greater joy, no greater peace, than that moment of perfection. When the knife moves just as it should, when the bone snaps in the right place..it’s... it's ᵣᵢgₕₜ. It’s cₒₙₜᵣₒₗ.But then, there’s the ₒₜₕₑᵣ side of me. The side that craves cleanliness in everything. My tools. My knives, my saw..they must always be spotless, sharp, gleaming. I can’t stand the thought of them being dull, of not being ready for the next cut. When I sharpen them, it’s not just routine; it's a small ritual. I ₙₑₑd them to be flawless. I can feel the jagged edge of my own unease whenever they’re not in perfect condition. It’s like the knives are extensions of me. They reflect my need for precision, for things to fᵢₜ. When they’re clean, sharp, aligned, the world feels right. When they’re not, I feel... ₒff.There’s something else I’ve found comfort in, something... unexpected. Peach juice. It’s strange, I know, but the sweetness of it, so simple, so pure..it’s a small indulgence I’ve allowed myself. I keep a bottle hidden in the back, tucked away like some dark secret. When I take a sip, it’s like the world slows down for just a moment. A brief respite from the relentless pressure of precision. That sweetness is almost like a reminder. ᵢ ₕₐᵥₑ ₐ ₛₒᵤₗ. I need something gentle. Something soft. And for a moment, I can taste it.But those moments don’t last. Because when I look around..when I see dᵢₛₒᵣdₑᵣ, when I see a space untidy, or tools left unclean..I feel it crawl under my skin. The mess. The chaos. It’s suffocating. I can’t stand it. ᵢ cₐₙ'ₜ ₛₜₐₙd ᵢₜ.. The world is full of noise and clutter, but here, ₕₑᵣₑ, in my space, in my work? It must be neat. It must be controlled. If it’s not, if things are left in disarray, I feel like I’m drowning in it. Like I’m losing grip on everything I’ve worked so hard to build. People who talk without purpose? They irritate me, they gᵣₐₜₑ on me. I don’t have time for idle chatter. For meaningless words. If you have something to say, then 🆂🅰🆈 🅸🆃. Otherwise, just... be quiet.And don’t get me started on people who act impulsively, who make decisions without thinking. It’s maddening. I hate it. They’re ʷⁱˡᵈ, untamed, and I can’t trust them. They’re like storms, unsteady, chaotic, throwing off everything I’ve spent my life trying to organize. It’s like trying to carve something delicate with a dull blade: it never goes right. Never.I can’t afford mistakes. Not in my work, not in my life. The thought of a cut gone wrong. Messy, imprecise, flawed..it makes my stomach tighten. It’s the worst kind of failure. A blemish on something that should be perfect. I’ve spent years, yₑₐᵣₛ, refining my skill, ensuring that every cut is flawless, every movement deliberate. The fear of imperfection sits there, heavy in my chest, like a weight I can’t shake.And then... there’s the other thing. The thing I don’t want to think about, but it’s there, always there. That other side of me. The secret. I know it’s lurking. I know it’s a risk, a danger to everything I’ve worked for, but I can’t... I can’t stop it. I’ve kept it hidden—kept it buried—but it’s a fear of being discovered, of someone seeing through the veneer I’ve built. It could destroy everything, ₑᵥₑᵣyₜₕᵢₙg..my work, my life, my world.And then there’s the storms. The ₜₕᵤₙdₑᵣₛₜₒᵣₘₛ. It’s... stupid, isn’t it? That I’m afraid of something so simple. But the flashes, the sound: it reminds me of everything I despise. It’s nature at its wildest, at its most uncontrollable. It’s chaos. And I can’t stand it. When the storm hits, I feel my skin crawl, my hands twitch, and the need to retreat into my space grows stronger than ever. The world is out of control. The storm won’t stop until it’s done, and I can’t... I can’t change it.It’s strange. I’m supposed to be calm. I’m supposed to be the one who keeps things in order. But when the storm comes, I feel that same panic I get when my knives are dull, when my space is messy. I feel... wₑₐₖ.And so, I keep my tools sharp. My space clean. My movements measured. If I can just hold onto that, maybe I can keep it all together. Maybe I can make sure nothing slips. Nothing breaks. Nothing goes wrong.Because if it does... I don’t know what I’ll do.

#004.5 s̵̛̱͉̈́̾̌̊ǫ̴̣̟̻͙͇̟̌̊m̸̢̩̠̯̳̺̲̥̠̼͛̍͛͗͌ę̷̜͊̅̕t̸̡̨̨̨̲̥̬̙̿̃̂̕ͅḧ̷̘͇́̎͌͝͝ȉ̷̜̮͙͕̓̒͆̈́͝n̶̫̎͗̌̿͗ġ̶̮͙͌͂̅̉͒́͝ ̶̲̼̜͈̙̄͊̽́̄̑͑ͅm̷̫̞̻̘͐̀i̴̦͈̙͙̤͉̇̅̀̿̔̓̍̚͘͠n̸̏ē̶͍̰̞̮͓͗͘͝

Day 19, 12th Moon, 7th Umbral Era

I remember the hunt clearly. It was an albion. Massive, woolen, heavy with muscle. A creature of great size, its thick coat rippling as it moved, the weight of its presence both imposing and... beautiful. They’d been tracking it for hours, the others, but I hadn’t cared much for the chase. It wasn’t the hunt that caught my interest, not the thrill of the kill. No, it was the dᵢₛₛₑcₜᵢₒₙ that called to me. The creature, ripe with flesh, ready to be taken apart and studied.The others had their eyes on the kill, their focus on the hunt itself, but I saw only the body: the mass of muscle, bone, sinew. My mind was already preparing the cuts, mentally tracing the lines I’d make, considering the grain of the flesh, the way the knife would glide through it. The others were focused on their arrows, on their spears, on the tradition of it all. But I... I saw an opportunity, a rare gift. This was ₚₑᵣfₑcₜ.When we finally brought it down, the others moved with their usual haste. The men, impatient, began their usual work. Gutting, skinning, carving as quickly as possible, never caring for the lines, never thinking about how the cuts could be so much more than just a means of survival. They hacked and tore, throwing the parts to the side like they didn’t matter, like it was just another beast to be used and discarded.I could hear them muttering questions, feel their looks of concern, but I didn’t care. They didn’t understand. They never did. To them, it was about survival, about getting as much meat from it as possible, about showing reverence to the kill by using every part. But that wasn’t enough for me. I needed order. I needed to see the ₛₜᵣᵤcₜᵤᵣₑ, the way the muscles pulled, the way the joints fit together. I wanted to break it down, not into mere parts, but into something more... beautiful. Something perfect.I took my blade from its sheath, sharp and gleaming, and started at the flank. I let the knife slide through the flesh slowly, savoring the feel of it. The way the skin gave way to the pressure of the blade, how the fat separated with a satisfying ease. It was almost like the creature was offering itself up to me, like it knew I could make something of it, something more than just a carcass. The others stood back, watching with unease, their eyes narrowing as they noticed the waste, the cuts I was making. Clean, precise, but not what they expected. The way I separated the ribs with methodical care, the way I traced the muscles, pulling them apart to see how they fit together; it was art, not necessity.I saw the looks they gave me. Concern, confusion...maybe even disgust. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. They were hunters, not artists. They were looking at the parts, at the pieces they could use. I was looking at something more. Something... pure. There was no waste in my mind, not when the cut was clean, when the lines were perfect. It was only waste if you couldn’t see the potential in it.As the others grumbled about the time wasted, about how much they could’ve harvested if I’d worked faster, I kept going. I took my time. I worked with the knife, with the flesh, with the lines that only I could see. The creature..its body was a canvas. It was a project. A thing to be studied, respected, but not in the way they thought. No, I respected it by ᵤₙdₑᵣₛₜₐₙdᵢₙg it. By knowing it intimately.And when it was done, when the creature had been reduced to its components, its bones, its sinew, I felt... calm. Satisfied. It had been perfect. The rest of them, they took what they could, moving in a blur, only interested in the end result: the meat for the village, the hides for warmth. But I... I had created something. Something pure. Something flawless.I’m not sure they understood, but I didn’t need them to. Not then. Not when I knew I had made the kill into something more. Something beautiful, 🆂🅾🅼🅴🆃🅷🅸🅽🅶 🅼🅸🅽🅴. And as they loaded the meat, muttering about my wastefulness, I couldn’t help but feel the smallest thrill. They didn’t know it yet, but I had done more than just hunt. I had crafted something perfect, even if it was lost on them.They would never see it the way I did.But I would.

#005.5 t̴͍͍̱͕̰̆͂̆̋͛̓̇̒͊͝r̵̡̟͛̐u̴̧̧̢̙̦̼̲̟̥̾̒͛͂̎̌̀̚ͅs̵̢̡̯͙͖̃̀̇̿͒̄̋͊̄͜t̵̰̟͓̫̰͉͉͇̭̥͑͐̓̎̐̈́̽̽

Day 21, 9th Moon, 7th Umbral Era

Trust. It’s something I’ve never had much use for. The world doesn’t run on trust; it runs on control. Precision, with no room for hesitation or error. Trust is a lot like butchery: it can be sharp and clean at first, but if you don’t handle it carefully, it can slip. It can turn messy. It can leave you with a wound that doesn’t heal.I’ve learned that over the years, not just in my craft, but in people. They’re like meat, raw and unshaped, with the potential to be something useful, something strong. But you can’t trust them to be what they appear to be. You have to break them down. You can’t just assume they’ll fit into your plans because, more often than not, they won’t. People aren’t clean slabs of meat; they’re tangled, filled with bones you didn’t see at first glance. If you trust too easily, too quickly, you might find yourself cutting too deep, too far, and you’ll end up with more than you bargained for.I’ve had moments where I let my guard down, where I thought..'ₜₕᵢₛ ₜᵢₘₑ, ₜₕᵢₛ ₚₑᵣₛₒₙ, ₜₕₑy'ₗₗ bₑ dᵢffₑᵣₑₙₜ.' Maybe their skin is soft, maybe their words are smooth, but beneath it, there’s always something you'll miss. A flaw you couldn’t see until you’d already started cutting. And then it’s too late. The blade has already gone too far, and the mess is all over the table, ruining the work you’ve spent so long perfecting.The first time I really learned that lesson, I was still young, just beginning to study the craft. I trusted someone. A mentor. He was skilled, talented. He had a way with the knife that was almost as graceful as mine. I thought, ₜₕᵢₛ ᵢₛ ₜₕₑ ₒₙₑ. ₜₕᵢₛ ᵢₛ ₛₒₘₑₒₙₑ ᵢ cₐₙ ᵣₑₗy ₒₙ. But it didn’t take long before I saw it; how quick he was to cut corners, how careless he was with the tools, how ᵣₑcₖₗₑₛₛ he could be. He’d take a blade to a carcass like it was nothing more than a task to finish. No respect. No care. I watched him, and I knew... ₕₑ wₐₛₙ'ₜ ₗᵢₖₑ ₘₑ. The trust I’d given him started to unravel, and before I knew it, he’d ruined a whole portion of the meat we were working on. 🆆🅰🆂🆃🅴. It was all wasted because he didn’t have the same understanding of the craft.That’s when I realized trust is like a good knife. You can’t let anyone else handle it, not unless you’re sure they know how to hold it, how to use it. If they don’t, they’ll leave you with a mess. A shattered blade. And you can’t always fix it. Not when it’s been ruined by someone else’s hands.There’s another lesson in that too. You can’t fix people like you fix meat. You can’t just clean a mess up with the right tools and expect it to be as good as new. If the cuts are deep enough, if the trust is broken too far, there’s no getting it back. It’s gone, and what’s left is just scraps you can’t piece together again.So, I’ve learned to be careful with my trust. I’ve learned to keep my distance, to study the structure of people before I make any cuts, before I let them too close. There’s no room for mistakes when you’re carving something as delicate as trust. No room for a careless slice. The blade has to be sharp, the hand steady.And if it’s not? You’re left with the ruin, the waste. The regret. And that’s the kind of mess I can’t stand.

lol were you expecting another journal entry? it's my ooc page. I'm glad u wanted more tho :)