αέναος

private mumu blog

[aenaos]

The silken spider — Lenyra Caelestis

about | threads | inspo

The revenant — Nao Yukimoto

about | threads | inspo

written by el for aurea rp

[apotrcpaics]

who? valdís [hawkmoth] & ??? [ 0/4 ] where? pandora’s box stall at the ghostlight market note: valdís (and the rest of the court) exclusively refer to hawkmoth with they/them pronouns, as this is a measure that valdís uses in order to further distance herself from the court in her day to day life

There is a crick in their neck, and they would give up multiple gold coins to crack their neck safely. It is one of the side-effects of the path one needs to take to arrive at the Ghostlight Market, at least to the one that wears the Hawkmoth mask. More often than not, they end with a sore neck as they do not find the coffin they take into the market particularly uncomfortable. Yet it is a minor pain, in the grand scale of things, and one they have grown used to from their many many trips into the market over the last three years. Although it is not Hawkmoth’s duty to man Pandora’s Box every night, they are often found standing watch over the stall with an air of indolent amusement exuding from their cloaked presence. 

And what a presence they make, dressed in the attire they have chosen—  with the help of Rook, who has a documented flair for the dramatics — to be their uniform for the market. A hooded cloak designed to imitate the patterns of a moth’s wing, extending down to brush over the floor as they move, and a pale circular mask with two moth antennae protruding from it and looming above the hood that hides their hair from the rest of the world. 

It is not the sort of attire they can easily wear during jobs, but it is well made so they see the need to use it for something. And if that something is to intimidate the possible customers flocking Pandora’s Box? Well, the more intimidated they are, the less likely they are to haggle the prices set for the merchandise. Prices that are higher than most deem affordable, but a necessity for the rarity of the items they provide, and the risks they take for providing them. 

“Welcome to Pandora’s Box,” they greet the figure approaching the stall once they notice them, voice low and changed by a nifty little artifact they had bought from a middling magi from one of the populus households. “What ills or boons do you desire to release upon the world this evening?”

The merchandise shown would vary, depending on the answer given by the client. If they want to release ills, they will be shown curses and the like. For boons, items that tend towards more benign purposes.

[aenaos]

Nao lingers in the middle of the street as if she has been deposited there by accident. As if her own two feet had not wandered into an open grave scented of wet stone and rotten leaves, as if she had not curled in on herself, weeping, while outside the air split with howls and cries, as if she had not clambered out immediately and thrown her coin at the ferryman's head, cursing him with every foul word she knew (which, admittedly, were few).

Her hand rises to tangle in her hair, eager to find something to do, only to stop at the feel of the mask beneath her fingertips. It is carved from wood, portraying a face contorted into a humorous expression. She thought it might cheer her. It did not. She thought it might draw a smile from the visitors around her. It did not.

So instead, she taps her nails against her mask in a soothing cadence. "Uhm, no ills, please.... I've had enough of those." Her voice is high and clear, young. "Boons, yes, that sounds encouraging." She shuffles closer. Her eyes, large and liquid, do not blink as they settle on the moth. Nao isn't an idiot. She knows it isn't an actual overgrown insect, but her heart still goes pitter-patter at the grating voice, like nails drawn slowly across a tabula. It takes effort to subdue the grind of her molars, the flex of her fingers. Her body is still less a vessel than a rickety scaffold, with its twitching nerves and spasms.

"You are... Pandora?" She points at herself. "I am Nao." Her hand drops. "I am seeking... someone. I do not think she is here." Her voice lowers a note at that, adrift upon the sea of her longing. "So, I ask for something else, yes?"

A breath. Then a pause.

"But... your cloak." Another pointed finger. Yuty would chide her for that. "It is all wrong. Not nearly as fluffy as the real thing.…" An inhale. "That saddens me. You sadden me."

[sidereius]

Adrian is not naive enough to believe that her composure would crumble even if they dug deep, even if they struck into the bone. But it mattered little. There would be time to muddle the waters of her pond, to make her precious string tangle, enough for Adrian to slink between the gaps of the chaos that would come. It is a hope with teeth. Nonetheless. “No, no water.” Though they did feel thirsty, alongside a hunger that would not abate. An ache underneath the nails, eyes that flicker to her throat as it swallows. It would’ve been one thing, to ravage then live in the shame of it; that would be something that Adrian knew quite well. But it is the revelry that he cannot forgive, the debauchery. They lick the blood off their lips, and wish for more. Want to close their jaws around tender that they do not deserve, swallow it whole. Adrian will not allow it. We can still have mercy, he had said. You give her more than she deserves. “Nobody.” The reply is immediate, comes without further thought. A saddened smile follows after. Honest, despite it all. “Nobody is, mistress. But we shall do our best to correct it. We must always hope for a brighter Aurea, and do our part in guiding it gently to be so, do we not?” The smile that graces their lips parts then into surprise, a small ‘o’. “Have the people grown so shameless, as to come beg alms from your husband’s wealth after his passing? Ah, I should not be so surprised—it has been long enough, for those who may gain for it to attempt to pick the meat off the bone. Why, I should be more surprised there was waiting at all.” Tut, tut. “Wearing masks, as well! Pretending to be something they are not!” Adrian fixes a loose of slip cloth from where it had been displaced by drunken hands, ones that had tugged before he had slapped them away. Where were they, again? “Oh, well. Crows do tend to come peck at that which shines.” They look around. Somewhere, there is a song that one cannot easily grasp with a chorus sweet moans that cloy the air, dipping it in sin. “And you shine quite brightly, mistress. Many wonders and such. You must’ve been taught well, for what you’ve done with the wealth you have inherited. Did you continue your husband’s business? What was it in again? Ah, or perhaps just the dividends?” They cock their head at the platter they yet hold. “Is this true silver? Oh, where do I—” Adrian quickly leaves it to the side of the bench, as if lunging close. One of the breads slides off in its own oil, falls to the floor with a splat. “Oh.” A pause, a cringe, then a grimace of a smile. Ha! “Forgive me.”

[aenaos]

The Magisterium's envoy drop each word in her lap like a sweetmeat, his eyes glittering like small jewels as they wait for her to bite. Their attempt to fatten her up with honey is laughable, so much so that it insults her. Is this Aulus' best? A pale little waif who mistakes cloying speech for cunning repartee? Disgust surges within her in waves.

What game are you playing, old man? Lenyra thinks. Sending me this poor child for dessert?

"A brighter Aurea," Lenyra starts softly, "could such a thing ever be possible, when she already gleams so?" A city drenched in wine and wonder, like a soaked date with a rotten core, cannot survive with its blackened pit exposed for all to see. Its shell must remain succulent, plump to bursting. It needs the promise of even better fruit. And hope, for these citizens born suckling at its breast, means more. More power. More riches. More blood. The child speaks of safety, but means comfort. "When each day the carrion birds land upon my doorstep, eager for their feast?"

Lenyra's eyes drift shut again. "The ashes had barely settled, the coals still warm upon my husband's pyre, when they arrived, one by one." She speaks as though stringing a lyre, turning pain into poetry. "I know what has been said of me—that I am a social climber, a tick upon my husband's side, that I would have gladly exchanged his life for his fortune." Her eyes open, her voice shifting into a lower register, a single note, solitary, sad, and sweet. "Will gold keep me warm? Will it lie beside me? Hold me as I grow gnarled and grey?"

Lenyra shakes her head, the pearls in her hair glittering with the movement, flashes of stolen light. "I mean no disrespect, but even you, honored guest, seem more interested in Lucan's wealth than his person." She sighs. "I would rather speak of—"

The white-haired nymph moves like a loosed arrow. Too sudden, too quick. Her heart leaps into her throat. Old instinct flares to life, and before she can master the impulse, Lenyra's hands rise as though to shield her face. The movement dies halfway, but it is enough. She stares at her.

There is an oddness in the air, a shifting of the sands.

Then her face cools, her features smoothing back into their polished equilibrium.

"You are forgiven."

[todoggukie]

1/? random gifs of Nana Komatsu.

[tolvajok]

he agrees. perhaps he shouldn't have done this on a whim. after years and years spent in this damned city, he should've learned already that underestimating someone of her stature is a bad idea. she might merely be a woman in the middle, a messenger, one that is also trapped in her web. she knows better than to take pity on the imbecile he's playing the role of. he should've gathered more information beforehand. he should've come more prepared. he should've-- he doesn't want to hurt her. but should she call the guards, his escape would be all the more difficult. annoying. would a threat suffice? he should've known better.

she is close by. could she be any of the guests he's memorized the silhouettes of? or is she hidden, somewhere in the labyrinth, a dark corner, where she awaits any who stumble into her web? think, taliesin. treading deeper into the maze narrows down his escape plans to two. if he has to fight his way out, then so be it. he begins to follow her, gaze flitting between their surroundings, and potential routes to run. scaling the wall would take too much time. he'd have to hide first. the blade he's hidden in his robes is pulled out and slid into the bracer on his wrist as he continues to go after her.

[aenaos]

She hears the faintest sound of metal sliding home. The sound sends a shiver racing down her spine, and with it, a sliver of clarity. Witty, daring, cunning. Knows which questions to ask and which roles to play, ever-masked, as sleek as an eel gliding downriver. Intent on uprooting the spider from her nest. Honored guest, royal and jester, and everything sharp in between.

...Very well.

She leads him to the heart of her home, down the serpentine paths and flower-choked halls, while the moonlight above sifts through the canopy, clean and merciless as a blade. Her hand trails along the ivy, which shifts at her familiar touch, alive and responsive, tangling enchanted messages woven through vein and root. Her guards will not be far. Nor will the labyrinth as it breathes and watches, ever hungry, petals of orange blossom drifting down like a signal. They brush her shoulders as she walks.

Finally, she turns, veiled in their fragrance, shrouded in shadow, and says, "Here we are." The softness glides from her face, dissolves like rain, and beneath it lies nothing but calculation. "Forgive me. Had I known who you were, I would have been more accommodating." Her voice is thin, her words many-legged. "But you came all this way to see me, little king, and I am most flattered." Lenyra takes a half-step forward, not to threaten, but to inform. "I warn you, however, that it will take much more than that pitiful blade to reach my throat."

In the distance, footsteps approach. Her eyes linger on his wrist for a heartbeat. Then she smiles, all silk and no warmth. "Many before you have tried." Her last words are soft as a kiss. "Go and look for them now."

[decthless]

A wisp of a boy rushes beneath the leaves, walking, gliding, waltzing through the moonlight, kissed by it like a lover as his gown drags, whispering morosely at the trail of his heels. The night is cold and lonely and his alone to own—he would not be told not to wander by a stranger. What good is coddling when he is to be abandoned like a defective thing the moment he outgrows his usefulness? Perhaps it is not reality, that his sibling will outgrow him, grow bored, weary of his antics—that they already are, no different from all the others; no different. They will leave him. They will leave him helpless and defenseless, he hears his own mind antagonize. Insecurities flare at midnight, when they are too far away to soothe him, when he retreats into himself and refuses to let others console him. Is their love waning? Where has he failed? What atrocities must he commit to hold onto it? They need only tell him—

Love is a scarce resource, and he dreads the thought of being alone. He wanders into the dark like a wounded sylph, without home, without aim, drifting through the haze of his late-night madness, shoulders hunched into a regrettable posture; sniffling, wiping away tears as they well in his eyes, hoping to be obscured, cradled by the veil of darkness stretching endlessly ahead while his bare feet pad across the cool grass.

Who would love him, then? Who would shield him? Who else would foolishly agree to shoulder the burden of him? Helpless thing, he was—how he loathed this pale, gilded carcass; this crippling weakness, this pale flesh rotting around his bones, these lungs, useless, useless! Failing him with every breath—what was he, if not deserving of cruelty, if not deserving of mockery and—

"Eek—!"

Ungracefully, his body tumbles towards the ground, crashing with a startled thud, something heavy and damp tumbling down on top of him. Hair spills into his mouth, veiling his eyes, caught between his fingers. The young lord flails helplessly. "Haneul! Haneul!" he shrieks, trembling violently, convinced he has come under attack; he is being taken. Devoured. Only... the monster does not bite. Teeth do not sink into flesh. His hands push feebly against the unexpected intruder—he has exhausted himself crying, his heart hammering like a frightened hummingbird thrashing against the bars of its cage, blood staining the ivory folds of his garments like violence against such small a creature, the white of his hair fanned beneath him across the grass like freshly fallen snow. "O-Off—off with you, you accursed...!" His eyes widen, pools of molten gold gleaming beneath the moonlight, the slivers of black at their center shrinking to pinpricks. "...Uh?" His heart skips a beat. He looks—really looks—and sees... A girl?

[aenaos]

Her head feels stuffed. Each time the boy shrieks, her thoughts flutter into the air like feathers. They move in time with his breaths. Up and down, back and forth. There is a faint humming. The sound moves, and she follows it, trailing her head down the boy's chest in a slow drag of hair like river weed. She presses an ear to the vessel of his ribs and listens to the bees trapped within, his pulse buzzing angrily, wishing to break free of its cage. Nao swallows another lungful, rust trickling back down her throat and into her belly, which growls with hunger. She can taste it on her tongue. Ozone before the crack of thunder. The primordial longing of the flame for the wick. Water bubbling from a spring. Magic. So much of it. He is a pitcher stuffed to the brim, overflowing, a veritable cornucopia of milk and honey. Just a bite, a nibble. Nao licks her lips, but then she looks up and forgets her appetite.

He is beautiful.

Not in the way Nayuta is—no one could ever be as fair as she—but delectable to the eye. Enough to sate. She doesn't really want to do anything. Just wants to watch. And so she does, resting her chin on his chest, her eyes large and liquid and dark, like freshly wetted inkstones. Hello, she thinks. My name is Nao. I am quite adrift, but I mean no harm. The boy looks back at her, tears drying on his cheeks. He looks upset. She has upset him. Nao opens her mouth to speak, but only a low whine comes out. Her lungs are on the verge of failing her. Her mind races. What can she do? She thinks of the cat that once nursed her babies outside her cell and finds herself crawling closer. She licks the salt from his face, laving him with her tongue as the mother cat once did her kittens. Nuzzles his temple with her nose. Her breath smells of overripe fruit, sweetness and decay. She believes she may be dying again. With the last of her energy expended, Nao slumps down once more, her lips shaping a name over and over.

Nayuta. Nayuta. Nayuta.

She hopes the boy will feel less sad now. That is not a bad reason to return to existence, is it? To have kept his sorrows company? But she had really hoped to see her Yuty again, at least once, kiss her cheek and hold her hand. Tell her it's not her fault. That in the end, she chose.

Nao exhales. Closes her eyes. Dies.

[tolvajok]

rook would rather die destitute and free than safe and in chains. being dependent on someone is a curse. like taking all one's armor off and telling another 'here. this is where you may stick your blade to make it hurt most.' to walk with a second shadow at all times. but... this boy doesn't know any better. "at least with her I could have purpose." that is what he wants, isn't it? something worth waking up in the morning for.

what rook wants, however, is a name. an associate. a location. anything that would get him closer to the spider. he wouldn't need to go himself. he could send one of his trusted spies to do the job. this sad little masked boy would be swallowed by the streets of aurea forever.

the hostess doesn't feel inclined to tell him anything, and it's starting to irritate him. why protect her? why protect him from her? he is of no consequence to her. he is a lowly guest of a guest down on his luck, no influence, no power for her to exploit. the best a lady of her station could do with him is give him what he wants regardless of the certain doom she sends him into. unless she's grown fond of him.

she asks for a name, and he feels the walls closing around him. not because he doesn't have a name, but because he's feeling the opportunity to get closer to her slipping away. "it is not only under your roof." he rises from his seat, "she knows how to make him go away. she knows how to make me disappear from under their noses. could you do that for me? would you keep me safe? what would you ask for in exchange?" he shakes his head, stepping to the side. "it was a mistake, coming here."

[aenaos]

His voice strikes a chord of sympathy in her. It echoes faintly in her own as she speaks. "You enter my garden reeking of desperation. Far too eager to sell yourself. That is not the lure you think it is." Lenyra knows an owner's cruelty, has felt the blow, has tasted the iron in her mouth. Liar or not, he is reaching for something, and she knows that feeling intimately. And so, she considers granting him the cruel mercy he desires, a dagger for a kiss, a harbor to fall into and never return from. Those most ravenous for change are often of the greatest use to her. She shapes their hunger into a tool befitting her needs while feeding them only morsels. "But not to me, then. Very well. I will not deprive a man of his choices."

The words flow like sorrow, yet trickle down like poison. She can't have him run, so she makes herself the bending reed, beckoning her prey closer to the pool. Whatever fangs hide beneath his mask will be no match for her own venom, not here, in her dew-webbed domain. Lenyra steps back in a murmur of moonlit silk, her shape slight as a willow. "She will not appreciate the disturbance, but she is close by." Closer than he thinks. She smooths her skirt, fingers tracing the outline of the thin knife she swiped from her fruit platter. "I tried..." With those words, she steps into the labyrinth, the shadows swallowing her whole. One thread is all a spider needs. Whether he follows or not, she already has his scent.

[breweri]

nayuta  believes  with  questionable  certainty  that  this  is  the  longest  they  have  ever  looked  upon  lenyra's  face.  they  could  be  called  goodsisters,  yes,  but  it  is  in  name  only.  nayuta  has  already  had  a  sister,  but  she  is  long  gone,  and  they  would  never  wish  her  fate  upon  another.  miseries  abounded  in  this  world;  they,  at  the  very  least,  would  be  more  discerning  with  the  ones  they  enacted.  and  perhaps  they  would  be  well  within  their  rights  to  visit  some  kind  of  vengeance  for  the  smaller  ones  the  woman  had  subjected  them  to  throughout  their  graceful  orbit  around  the  caelestis  star.  'twas  not  an  accurate  reading  —  but  the  wedding  and  funeral  left  nayuta  with  a  bitter  taste  in  their  mouth  despite  the  delicacies  offered  therein.  bumping  shoulders  with  their  husband  and  cracking  wise  in  hushed  tones  was  not  quite  a  salve,  nor  could  it  even  be  called  an  ointment.  as  it  is,  their  depiction  of  their  goodsister  can  be  considered  a  gift  in  its  verisimilitudes,  calculated  to  draw  the  viewer  in  as  the subject  bird-women  did  to  their  sailor  thralls.

❝  many  thanks  for  the  kind  words.  ❞  they've  been  told  before  that  pleasantries  sound  empty  on  their  tongue.  indeed  they  must  be,  for  the  genuine  ones  they've  offered  number  few  and  far  between.  surely  the  lithe-tongued  weaver  is  not  so  unfamiliar,  with  neither  nayuta's  criticism  in  particular  nor  its  twins  bound  for  other  souls.  bluntness  was  their  answering  shield,  a  solid  brick  wall  rather  than  many-holed  filament.  ❝  you  are  not  the  first  to  render  them.  would  that  we  behaved  as  family  ought  ❞  —  laughable,  considering  the  frostfolk  who  had  sculpted  them  —  ❝  you  may  have  come  to  the  realization  sooner.  ❞  there  is  no  accusation  in  their  intent,  though  they  would  not  deny  a  stone  was  cast.

turning  the  sketch  around,  they  rub  dark  smudges  onto  the  rag  hanging  off  a  hook,  screwed  into  the  lectern's  side.  it  is  a  superfluous  habit,  given  the  black-dyed  muslin  already  coating  their  arms  up  to  the  elbows,  but  a  soothing  one  all  the  same.  a  gesture  of  finality  and  a  job  well  done.  or,  in  this  case,  one  yet  to  come.  ❝  have  you  possessed  this  treasure  for  long  ?  you  needn't  have  waited  for  the  scriptorium  to  open  to  the  public,  if  so.  your  goodbrother  can  attest  to  my  generosity,  though  perhaps  he  might  object  to  my  taking  my  work  home.  ❞  a  slight  raise  to  their  chin,  a  downward  tilt  of  their  gaze.  forever  a  yukimoto,  made  for  snowcapped  peaks.  ❝  but  you  needn't  worry.  my  diligence  does  not  differentiate  between  mandate  and  favor.  ❞  for  there  have  ever  been  so  very  few  of  the  latter.

[aenaos]

She remembers her goodsister's features well. An implacable mask passing for a true face, all those fine lines painted with brushstrokes that hide the ever-shifting creature below. She is a snow-carved pillar standing apart from the crowd, seemingly exempt from their petty rivalries and glorious riches, only ever coming to life when her goodbrother's whispers brush her ears, as if it is only his breath that animates her. The way magi weave spells into statues, leashing them to do their bidding while the stone remains ever unaware. She is nothing to Lenyra, a bystander and puppet to Leonidas' cruelty. Perhaps this would have roused pity in her, were it not for the memory of her wedding. When they had draped her in ivory and saffron, crowned her with a wreath of myrtle and orange blossoms, and sent her into Lucan's arms like a prize pig to the slaughter. When, beneath her second veil of tears, she had glanced at them both and seen their gleeful smiles and vulture's claws, turning a wedding feast she had never desired into their private banquet of bones.

Does she think Lenyra does not recognize the barb's sting? Between the two of them, it is she who has walked the coal path, who picked the tender skin from her heels until it burned no longer, until she could walk into flame and tame it with naught but a kind word. Veiled insinuations meant to wound no longer reach her. "An error we must rectify, sister," Lenyra affirms. "Few things in life matter as much as kin and kindred." Her gaze follows Nayuta as she cleans her hands. Were it that simple. They are all bound to the Caelestis, and none of their ledgers will ever be free of that stain. Lenyra lets the silence stretch after the question, lets the seconds drift by as though underwater, while she tilts her head and graces the other woman with a smile that is more pyrite than gold. When she finally speaks, she does not blink. "I am not prone to asking for favors without offering something in return. In my experience, that soon becomes a dangerous habit."

Her hand reaches toward the tome, a finger settling just above the inked drawing and tapping twice. "But you went above and beyond, which I consider worthy of recompense." She reaches into the pearl-beaded purse hanging from her belt and produces a plain pouch, its clumsy embroidery weathered with time, barely legible. 那由多. Another treasure. A poisoned apple. A small vengeance inflicted upon her goodsister for a girl long gone. "I believe this is yours?" She slides the pouch across the desk. "I am not sure of its value..." Her voice lilts, siren-sweet. "But I do know one should never grow careless with things that belong to them." Inside nestles a small hay doll, the kind children make. Her agents plucked it from the aftermath of violence, where three lost their lives, seemingly shred apart by animals even though they were found deep within the city. An odd scene to be linked to, and a fortunate thing Lenyra obtained the evidence instead. Too fortunate.

[decthless]

The general tilts his head, and those locks he combs so thoroughly fall down the length of his back, the wisps she holds between her fingers remain there in willing submission, and he wonders how it is she does not feel disgusted to touch something so covered in tragedy. What happened to her, that had made her so comfortable to linger in the same corridors death did, without staggering, without flinching. "I know so..." the oldest Zhou reassures, a softness to the certainty of his words, spoken without that subtle undertone of paranoia and resentment that tends to sneak between his words whenever one threatens to know him, to understand him; he chooses selective those he feels safe confiding in, and he had chosen her, and he would choose her a thousand times over. A quiet sigh leaves him, he sounds so tired—his gaze lingering idly somewhere beyond her shoulder before his eyelids fall over them, carving a moment of respite out of their small affections, where his shoulders could drop and his hand could loosen the shape of fists they'd held for too long. "I would not put my trust in someone who would..." he would not say so if he did not mean it—she knows him well enough by now to know that, doesn't she? That he is incorrigible? That he speaks truth, even, maybe especially so, when he shouldn't? She had tried to tame his tongue before, and they'd both accumulated nothing but frustration from it.

Was that what they were? A tale to be written and rewritten in a the eyes of others to amuse themselves? Did it truly look so strange for a creature such as he to search solace in her company? "Then forgive your general for speaking so brazenly, Lady of Delights..." his head inclines towards her, pulled naturally into her orbit in a gesture that teeters somewhere between courtesy and intimacy. "But I think you are much more than just that." Perhaps not to the untrained eye—to those cemented in too much judgement to make room for curiosity, but he does. He thinks he does—see her, that is; beyond the veils of hedonism, beyond the facade of indifference she wears. He was certain no mask could be worn for long without wearing traces on one's skin... just as he was certain there was much more to her than she had ever been given credit for. There is a pause, thoughtful, hesitant, as though he weighs each word before offering it at her alter. "You, my lady, are clever as a fox, is what you are..." Much clever than he, who would've not thought to take advantage of such rumors, but put his ego first where it had no place being. Every time he comes, she teaches him something new. The corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly, unveiling the faintest flicker of amusement beneath his usual solemn expression. "Wise well beyond your years." He adds, his perilous gaze steady upon her. "If the magistrates possessed any sense, they would put you in charge." he'd much happier serving under her, he thinks. Though much of her remains a mystery, somehow he had faith she would be neither as wasteful, nor as mercurial as the lot of them.

He laughs, and his throat bobs—a rare sound, gravely and harsh from misuse. It catches in his throat before settling into an easy exhale, and for a fleeting instant he feels unburdened of the weight of his responsibilities. "Perhaps it is you who's shrunken a few inches," he teases back, the jest is dry, understated, with enough warmth behind it for her to recognize his feeble attempts at being playful.

"Mm..." an agreeable nod follows, the well-behaved, dutiful son living within those bones of his still. "Then you should be the one to trim it," a faint smile touches his lips. "I trust your hand to be gentle with me." It had been some time since he had asked Lian for a trim—surely his baby brother would not be too upset to delegate such boring duties onto the hands of another, would he?

Silence settles comfortably between them, his eyes hesitant to even look, as though that in itself was a kind of betrayal. "Mm…" he is shy; all these years, and Sheng is still much too timid to approach—the answer, if you could call it that, is nothing but a quiet, agreeable hum, afraid to exist, to be heard, to be acknowledged. "Perhaps..." his eyes drift toward the gardens beyond, to the wisps of fair locks caught in a playful breeze, the the sweetened air, imbibed in the scent of mischeif and ripe fruit, moonlight spilling across winding paths and rustling hedges as the moths flutter in the endless blue.

There is something boyish in the hesitation that follows, the way he averts his eyes, the formidable general shrinking inside its own armor. "Before I make a fool of myself," he says, lifting his gaze to her tentatively. "I'd like to take a walk..." his hand moves subtly to hover above her own without touching—a silent invitation that leaves the choice to reach entirely in her hands. "...if my hostess will have me." his gaze lingers, waiting, expectant, a breeze stirring the loose strands of his dark hair. "The night is lovely, isn't it?"

[aenaos]

It has always been thus. He stretches his hand towards the spider and trusts her not to bite. She presses her fingers against the demon's brow and does not burn. Is this kinship, then, to sit with your jagged edges pressed tightly together without being cut? Lenyra watches him from the corner of her eye, her observation washing over the other not like a rush of water, but as a cooling balm instead. Slow and languid, without intrusion. She notes when his eyes drift shut, too open, too comfortable. A man sits beside her, with open fists made for striking, but she does not fear them, and that was not always so. True, he is still a lion laying his maned head upon her lap, paws tucked beneath his body, the promise of violence present in the strength of his limbs and the bellows of his lungs, but she can look upon him with proffered softness without play-acting. That too was not always so. Her lip twitches. "Of course. Few in this world deserve such a boon as your trust. I would not waste it."

Clever as a sphinx, but much prettier, Lucan used to say, in those early, joyous days. The precious months when she was a wife and not a workhorse, and he had taken her on a tour of the city's thermae. They had supped each eve on oysters, which he would feed her from his plate, telling her the world was a pearl for the taking. In the end, I took it, she thinks, but not for you. She blinks away the memory. Not the time nor place. Yet she thinks of Lucan more often nowadays. How can she not? With those dreams... Lenyra leans closer, veiled in a fragrance of cedar and jasmine, and focuses on Sheng's features. If only I'd married you instead, she thinks, not for the first time. It is an idle thought, not a true wish, one made for simpler times and a simpler woman. Her place is not in the marital bed, but at the zenith of where the moon meets the mountain, fate-weaver and light-eater. At Sheng's admission, the corners of her eyes crinkle with true delight, not merely the mirror of it. "Do you propose I take the highest seat for myself? It is a long way up, but an even longer way down." Her voice shifts into a teasing note. "Especially for us little ones." Her hand rises once more to weave a lock of hair around her fingers, quick and efficient as a spider's stride. "Would you catch me, General?"

Her hand moves with the tilt of his head as she nods, fluid and supple. "You trust my hand so near your pulse with a blade? Some would call that ill-advised." But only those who know her as the spider she is, blackened by her widow's shroud. "But if you allow it, then I shall oblige. Perhaps I could oil your hair and weave it with flowers, as my servants do. Would you like that?" Her touch falling away, Lenyra shifts to regard the nymph. Sheng's attention dissolves into shyness, as it is wont to do. For such a feared man, he truly can be little more than a schoolboy when confronted with something he wants. Lenyra is a purveyor of desire, but part of her skill lies not in pushing the matter too quickly, but in allowing ardor to surface of its own volition, coaxed by nothing more than a soft touch. "Later then. Before I lose you to... this lovely night." Lenyra places her smaller hand in his. "Lead the way, General."

[tolvajok]

"romance and I've got a tumultuous courtship between us." to say the least. still, as he speaks, there's a lightness to him, her tease met with a roll of eyes, though it is more self-deprecating than anything. he is, for all intents and purposes, a romantic at heart. to paint the most ordinary aspects of life into something colorful takes a certain sense of conviction for romance. matters of the heart doesn't only encase love. it is every other emotion one may experience.

it is a compelling game he plays. speaking out loud something profound and from his heart, something he could only do when he's not acting like himself. the hostess doesn't know him. may never see him again after tonight. and yet, their conversation will stay with him for years to come, he thinks.

there's a change in the air, which he suspected would happen once he uttered the question. it was said in a risky way. bluntly, even, for the boy he plays the role of knows not how much danger he may put not only himself, but her as well. he reminds himself to act taken aback as she leans in closer to him, he himself pressing up against the armrest. it's a shame he forgets to act with his eyes too, his calm gaze betraying the frightened body language he's exhibiting.

"...so you do know of her." his voice drops, but only for a second before it's back to the light one of his designated role for the night. "please, my lady, he's a monster! I wish t-to escape the role I was forced into. I desire a new role. one that she may bestow upon me."

[aenaos]

Presumptuous little thing. He plays the desperate ingénue well, she will give him that. But as his words reverberate down her web, the spider listens only to the pulse beneath. She measures the rhythm of his lie. Unweaves the discordant notes hidden within. It's the little things: the hitch in his voice, the absence of dread in his gaze, the previous intelligence that ill matches his supposed foolishness.

In response, Lenyra brushes a finger against her lower lip, as though in thought. He has come into her house, drunk her wine, eaten from her table, and now he has lied to her. Her eyes close briefly. She sighs. "I do."

Lenyra turns, her gaze drifting towards the labyrinth. Shadows gather in the angles of her face, shrouding her expression. "You would trade one pair of chains for another? Who is to say hers will be any looser?" Her voice dips into a softer register, half pity, a caress strung like a noose. "Who is to say her protection does not come with a price?" Her hand rises to twist the ring upon her finger, a nervous gesture. "I would not have you make the mistake I did..." As she looks back over her shoulder, melancholy wells in her eyes like water. "Let me be the one to help instead. Tell me who has harmed you. I will not allow such barbarity beneath my roof."

If he trusts her enough to ask for the spider, then surely entrusting her with a name is the lesser risk. And if he does not, well... that is only another thread to follow until the time comes to strip away his core, muscle from tendon, and gather the softened tissue.

[tolvajok]

by the way she speaks of her late husband, supposedly, in a voice as gentle as a soft, if not bittersweet breeze, he doesn't have the heart to mention that she may not find a replacement in this lifetime. of all the songs he's played and poems he's read before, which he deems truer than any other experience save the ones he's felt in his own heart, he knows this. though he's never felt the over-encompassing and suffocating sense of love before, having read those stories, he may not have the strength to give himself over to it. "who knows... perhaps it is his exact opposite your heart will find in the future. fate enjoys such entertainment, after all."

if only, his pursuit for the night were naught but search for pleasure. if only, he was just one of the small-folk, taken and used by those in power, desiring to taste something sweet, just for tonight, before having to wake up into the nightmare of existence again. if only, he were that... boring.

"I'd heard tale of a woman." he reminds himself that he is playing a role. naive, wanting, destitute. no clue of how much of a risk it may be, to speak of her. "one that offers help to folk like..." a soft smile, hidden behind the mask, "like me. in exchange for whispers." gloved fingers in his lap begin to fidget, feigning a set of nerves coming over this poor lost little bird he's playing the role of. "...is she here, perhaps?"

[aenaos]

Your eyes are the color of rich earth, Lenyra thinks. You do not understand what it is to be barren soil. No love can take root here; it was torn from me a long time ago. "Are you a romantic, stranger, or is this your poet's soul speaking?" The words lilt, light and teasing. "With a mere phrase, you've cut to the heart of it. I no longer seek such pleasures. If it is destined, Fortune will guide what I desire to me." She speaks from the heart now, but she longs not for a loving touch, but a sharp knife aimed at his throat. Her creator. Her enemy.

The change is immediate. The slight levity dissipates like mist, and her eyes shift into a shade that catches the light yet reflects nothing. She becomes motionless, eerily so. "I see." After a beat, Lenyra steps forward, noting the slight difference in their heights. One arm leans on the carved armest behind him. She brings her face close, her whisper brushes the wood of his mask. "Noble guest, if you chase such dangerous pleasures, then it will be on your own head." Another beat, and then she leans back, releasing him. "This is meant to be a place where we escape our roles. The woman of whom you speak is no exception. Even posing such a question here places me in peril, do you understand?" Lenyra steps back and shakes her head. "If I am to risk her ire, then so be it. But first, tell me what trouble you are in. At least give me that."

[aubadement]

Emeric was not a violent man. Or, rather, an amendment to such statement - Emeric was not a violent man on the surface, tangibly writ in something corporeal. Whatever violent mannerisms of his house lay in the cruel talents of their craft. Yet, as Lenyra, spoke so politely, ambitions lain taught behind porcelain teeth, there was something strangely ireful which twitched within. A sleeping serpent, slithering through the grass until they'd be prompted to spring forth, a mouth agape and teeth glinting. It was not her which provoked this feeling, not entirely. Anyone else could be crowned the lady of delights and Emeric would have the same aversion. He felt the whittling of a fresh carapace shift into place, watched her eyes go seemingly dark, all before his attention is entirely diverted by a shrieking maiden and her own spellbound indulgence.  Laughter splintered whatever knives he formally garnered in his gaze, lambs draped in wolves skin pretending they were more predator than prey. He'd been at this a long time, tripping and stumbling in the overgrown shoes his father had left him, and it still felt like a far cry from what Emeric was meant to represent. Most days were lost in a deep expanse of stars, slipping into the wading pool of a mind which no longer felt to resemble his own. Pieces jarringly placed back together, scrambled up and tossed within as though someone was in a hurry.  Lenyra would strike him down and take his own crown of smoke and mirrors long before he'd ever do the same to her, but Emeric resigned his inner venom currently; he needn't bear his teeth at the woman, for it was not her cross to bear either. ❝ Each freedom I'm meant to provide is but another string clipped onto me . ❞ That said, he appreciated the thinly veiled candor Lenyra supplied within this moment. ❝ It's not often that one comes sniffing around for memories pilfered with complete aplomb. ❞  The bitterness is not found in his voice, maybe instead, there is a matched sorrow, shown with an aggrieved strike of a chuckle, ❝ I'm sorry I don't come here as a merrymaker but your parties lost their luster for me many moons ago . ❞ There is a teasing cadence, as though poking at the idea that her parties were losing their momentum, but that was hardly the case where the lady of delights and her endless bacchanalia were. It was simply an unfortunate truth, that he had seen the monster lurking behind the Aurean curtain and until he felt he could walk from it without the beast flaying him in two, Emeric continued this resentful dance. ❝ You know , fleeting fulfilment and all that . I do wonder what memories you and your cadre would ever give up , something tells me the list is scant . ❞ She is the spider, he is the willing fly, for even his current suggestion does not border on combative and simply careens around the scope of dangerous curiosity. 

[aenaos]

Lenyra watches him swell with some unnamed emotion from the edge of her vision. There is a taste in the air; petrichor before the storm; the wet scent of salt before the flood. The man beside her is a wineskin filled to bursting. He is adept at hiding his emotions, however, so Lenyra knows only of the fracture's existence and cannot make rhyme nor reason of it. All she has are his words, splintered into meaning, to be puzzled back into a whole. "I've heard tales," she starts gently, her voice woven with spider silk. "Of the burden your people bear with each captured memory. Yours is a noble profession. But the worthiness of your work does not excuse the sacrifices it asks of you." She places the poisoned offering at his feet, like a date dusted with hemlock. Then comes the question: "Pilfered? An interesting choice of words. Not exchanged, not given, but taken?"

She does not ask further, lets the words linger in the air like the blossom smoke. He will answer, or he will not, and even in the silence she will read meaning.

Emeric's chuckle is laced with iron thread, something that tightens instead of releases. Lenyra leans forward slightly, gossamer silk gathering at her elbows like clustered webs. "You are bold tonight." One brow arches. "I do not mislike it. Though I am unsure whether you wish to injure or question." Their gazes lock in a collision of blue, though there is no violence in it, at least not on her behalf. Quite the opposite. He has finally made himself interesting.

"Do you see impermanence as a fault? It is true I cannot offer any lasting satisfaction, but I have never claimed to. Few things in life are permanent. What pleases a man today might grieve him tomorrow. I offer no mooring, only a stop along the way. For some, that is enough. For you, it is not. And so, you have set yourself apart from us." Lenyra leans back again, supple and fluid in her repose. "But as long as you're here, I will make the journey with you." Another pause. Then truth, exchanged like a coin, polished and perfect. "My dear Emeric, I would offer you entire years if I could. If I did not value the person they have made of me. If I did not need their lessons."

Her gaze drifts to the labyrinth. "Wouldn't you? Have you never been tempted to ask a token for yourself?"

[aenaos]

Who: Yukimara Nao & Kwon Baeksa ( @decthless ) Where: Kwon grounds Trigger warnings: murder and gore

The groundskeeper twitches in the grass, wheezing through the hole in his throat.It is a cry like that of a wounded bird, shrill and mournful all at once. Nao kneels, half-blinded by the sweltering sphere in the sky, a globe fat with light dripping from the heavens. Like the groundskeeper's blood that dyes the blades of grass scarlet-sweet. Planting her one hand beside his head, she leans close and tries to shape her words into some simulacrum of meaning while her eyes well with salt.

"S…o….." A glob of blood makes its way up her throat. She spits it out, the fweeeepp followed by a wet splack. Her eardrums hum with the sound. It is all so new. So much of it. All those experiences, stolen from her for too long.

"Soo……"

A gasp. A moan. His? Hers?

"Sooooooooo…………………"

She coughs, splattering his face with blood. On instinct, her good hand—no, her only hand—reaches out to wipe the red liquid away, and down she goes. The world tilts in a blur of azure and greenery, specks of light blurring before her eyes, and then she is on her back. Like a turtle, she thinks. The one someone poked with a stick once, until Yuta said... what did Yuta say...? Where did Yuta go?

If she is her, and she is here, then where is she?

Nao turns her head, tendrils of inky hair plastered to her temple, and sees that the groundskeeper has died. His mouth is open. She gets up. Closes it. She sucks in air. Expels it. "Sor..."

The cherry tree is pink, its petals lush as an open mouth. Nao takes a running leap and delights in the whoosh of air across her skin, in the way her feet know exactly where to land. The branch creaks beneath her weight, but does not give. With her teeth, she adjusts the stolen robe. It is a heavy thing, all gray cloth, the sort of heavy wool meant for an Aurean shepherd. Not that Aurea has shepherds. But she imagines it is the sort of thing they would wear. Hidden beneath the foliage, she waits, and waits, and waits. Once the sun has descended, she will continue her voyage. No, odyssey. That has a nicer ring to it.

After all, her harbor awaits.

Sister-sweet, heart-root, blood-rot.

She is waiting. She must be.

A soft sound. A whisper of silk. Nao sees him then: the boy, the doll, the pale bird. He drifts, he flies, he floats. As he moves through the garden, so does she, climbing from branch to branch, bending her joints into angles once deemed impossible. Making herself smaller, a cluster of not-girl. He has the longest hair she has ever seen, even longer than hers, and a thousand times silkier. When he drifts farther from her sight, her neck cranes out to follow, vertebrae creaking. Perhaps he feels her gaze. Perhaps he likes this pink tree too.

Whatever the reason, he nears again, but she does not move back beneath the canopy. She leans forward, just a little closer. Too close.

Punishment follows swiftly as Nao falls like a leaf in autumn. They collide violently, her knee finding a rib, her head slamming into his.

"Aaaaaaa," she groans. Then, once more, with feeling: "Aaaaaaaah."

[aenaos]

foretelling of ( spider lilies blooming through the gaps of a severed spine, clawing out of a cold womb into a world that rejected you the first time, moths drifting through the air in their moon-lit mantles ) comes NAO YUKIMOTO of house yukimoto, hailing from the city of aurea. will their position as a revenant and a magi bring forth fortune or misery to them, when left to Aurea's wicked hands? it is whispered they are vengeful and violent, and yet dreamlike and apologetic.

Details

full name: nao yukimoto nicknames: nana monikers: mortis filia appearance: very frail and waifish. ink-black, pin-straight hair that is often tousled or unkempt. large, doll-like eyes and a cherubic face. a deathly pallor to her skin, concerningly so. when low on magic, she actively begins to decay, dark splotches will appear on her skin and her face will turn hollow and sunken. also like... her arm is missing rn. age: ???? sexuality: ???? fc: nana komatsu (gifs will be used sparingly) abilities: basic weakened magic, inhuman strength and agility, rapid regeneration

Bio

warnings: torture, child death, mutilation, gore, body horror.

Her tale does not end there. Nao's corpse is dragged back to the cold room, stripped of clothing, washed with vinegar, prepared like the cold cut of meat she's now been reduced to. Her limbs are arranged and measured. Fingers stretch her lips and count her teeth. Her hair is shorn off, then braided into cords. Not a morsel will be wasted. Whatever slender strand of magic that lived within her will be extracted and woven into a new design. House Yukimoto will always find new ways to eat its young. They take her arm first. The cleaver descends with a whack, followed by a deafening crack and the slow gush of blood. It matters not. She is beyond feeling now. But not beyond awareness. Whatever cosmic material animates her, be it spirit, soul, or love, clings stubbornly to her bones. Docile, obedient, meek little Nao rebels. She locks herself inside the body that is slowly being dismantled, even as they pull her apart splinter by splinter. She does not step through the open door, but lingers within the hollowed ruin. Perhaps she waits for her other half. Perhaps she simply refuses to yield her place. Only when he arranges her second arm does her butcher notice the faint humming that still weaves through her veins. Not a pulse. Not blood. Magic. Impossible. Undeniable. The weakest and frailest among them has conquered death. The cold room falls silent for a singular moment, then they move as one, white robes fluttering like a flock of birds descending upon the last piece of bread. First the corpse is kept on ice. Then studied and prodded at. Only after extensive examination does the work begin. What follows cannot be summarized with words, but only with this: they succeed where their ancestors have failed. The second time is even harder than the first. She wriggles her way back into being, like a larva emerging from its cocoon. There are no midwives to guide her. No mother's milk awaits her at the end. Coldness greets her instead. The scent of rot. The taste of rust. Her mouth seeks nourishment nonetheless, sinking into an attendant's arm, teething, chewing. She is a marvel, the work of centuries, the nexus of where medicine and magic overlap. Consciousness arrives in mouthfuls. The dead flesh from other initiates sustains her. The magic woven within sinew and veins, swallowed whole, keeps her patchwork heart beating and the rot from setting in again. Yuty, is her first word. Where, her second. Yuty. Where have you gone? Yuty. Why did you leave me? The years stretch on, scattered through the mazework of her mind. More poking and prodding. She is stitched back into being, bit by bit. There is neither past nor future, only the now. Until one day, someone grows careless. Until one day, she learns. She is no longer frail. And the world waits. Just outside that door.

[sidereius]

Eyes as if dead fish stare, as the mask is woven with such craftsmanship as to stun one into silence, elegant fingers jeweled in twinkling rings twirling and catching and loosening on the spindle, with nary a single notch nor stray frayed thread. A trick where one even aware cannot see the switch of the gold coin from hand to hand. But knowing that it is mummer’s farce, it is spoiled forevermore, its wonder squashed. And I know. “You offer too much, mistress.” Abashed, tips of the ears tinted red as they rise. For a moment, their gazes meet, and Adrian looks away again in supposed shyness—at the crushed petals, at the spilled wine. Would she have them bite into the ripe peaches, pick and pluck at her pomegranate seeds until morn? In another world, perhaps. In another world Adrian might’ve been foolish youth; feeling special for glimpsing her wondrous world, fey forest past the brush. In this one, Adrian is graveyard dirt, being kicked to soil. “But I cannot. Duty has made it so that I cannot linger in such sweet comforts.” The scent of her wafts and coils like thread, that of the air, thick with orange blooms. It stinks. His nose scrunches. “Perhaps too sweet." They giggle, catching her eye again as if sharing a jape, before letting go with playful claws. The quirk to their lips, that sly smile, lingers. “I shall remain standing for what I must.” Spine unbent, the translucent white silk made them look more wraith than waif. The cold of the night would make one’s skin gooseflesh, but his blood was thrumming too strongly through his veins to feel it. “The magisterium would never forget such slights." Said as docile as a fawn, accompanied by a head slightly lowered, and wide, cloying eyes. “Let alone to one of such great, recognized bearing.” They shook their head, alongside such a notion. “Your husband was one of Aurea’s truest servants—how could he be forgotten?" We can only ask for your forgiveness, that it has taken long enough that you must’ve believed such justice to never come. I see you have recovered, as well, mistress." Adrian peeks from underneath a curtain of white hair, hanging as if bride veil. “Your servants did not allow me past the door, for they spoke of you feeling faint. Sick for so many days, I am gladdened to see you hearty and hale.” They blush. "“For your cooperation is mandated, as noted in the letter itself."

[aenaos]

Lenyra imagines digging a nail into the fey creature. She wants to peel away his skin like birch bark and trace the rings etched within, decipher the truth with her fingertips. "Ah, of course," she says, wiping away the beads of tears welling beneath her eyes. "As you wish. Will you not even take some water? You must be parched, you poor thing." She shakes her head, curls tousling artfully over her shoulder, strewn with pearls that catch the light like morning dew. "I shall not impose on you, then."

Their giggle chimes, bell-like, and she feels something inside her tighten. It feels familiar, a shard of mirror glass presented as the whole. Another one of Aulus' creatures, unaware that his hand has already begun their fracturing. She feels his presence here like a hand wrapped around her throat. His and Lucan's.

Brushing away another stray tear, she nods. "I never thought otherwise." By which she means she never thought herself safe. Others have perished since then, for it is true that the first spill of blood is the most difficult, but they are the only specters that cling to her. Even in death, they stake their claim. She knows it every time her name is called, sung, praised.

Caelestis.

Bartered. Bought. Marked.

She cannot escape Lucan; she cannot wash away the soot of his touch, the memory of his hands bruising her skin. "Indeed, if even my husband was not safe within the city's walls, then who else is?" Her voice weaves the spell, intent to choke. "Such dangerous times we find ourselves in."

Hands settling in her lap, Lenyra allows herself the comfort of a single breath, drawing out the moment as her mind races. "The fault is mine, I'm afraid. Many petitioners come to my doors on nights such as these, disturbing the peace of my guests. Thus, I have instructed my servants to let no one enter, no matter their station or professed intent." Her eyes flick upwards in a sliverlet of blue. "You would not believe the lies they tell. Even so, I apologize. They should have informed me."

[riguangs]

back resting against the lavish couch, they watch the lady of house caelestis, the creator of this intricate weave, the mind behind the pleasure that's exalted and infected amongst all the high and mighty aureans, who flock here like a moth to a flame. they watch her as she watches them, a game of chess where both of them are aware they are playing a game. a game that is not a game, standing on two ends of a bridge, and wondering which side will start to tremble before the other. their legs cross over one another underneath the dark purple robes, a glimpse of gold underneath, reflecting against the candlelight. haneul has worn one of their more gaudy robes, embroidered with threads of golden silk, so that they do not stand out against the backdrop of the scenery. they are still not the most ostentatiously dressed out of the guests today; they fall somewhere in the middle as intended. the lady's voice is low and pleasant, her movements relaxed and slow, someone who is at their best, doing what they are born to do. the liege hums at the praises sung to the goddess, taking in the questions as the challenge they are. if there is a flicker of an upward turn on one side of their lips, it must be a trick of light. nothing more. "belief is to be left to the worshipper, lady lenyra." many lives have fallen in false beliefs, or the wrath of gods on the opposite side. it can be a fickle thing, to comment on someone's religion, though they do not think she is of true spiritual belief. at least not if it really came down to making a decision between reason and hope. "if you have seen those who have sacrificed in her name awarded, there seems to be no risk in indulging in it yourself." the glass with gems is raised to their lips, wine running smoothly down their throat, no doubt aged for a long time. "if you seek relief... a lamb raised for slaughter knows no other fate." whether to award it one is another decision, and it must be done carefully. a poor fate can be worse than no fate at all.

[aenaos]

Even now they walk the thin rope without falling; they are the eternal passive observer, showing neither allegiance nor weakness. Haneul Kwon possesses the substance of unyielding iron, and their eyes form the hard cut of obsidian—they cannot be bled. And so, they rest at the center of her web without fear of her bite.

Lenyra tilts her head ever so slightly. "Perhaps, though only rarely does worship endure unseen. The true fervency of a ritual swells until it bursts, then trickles to an audience like water through a crack in a vase." A faint curve of her mouth. "That is why a priest needs his congregation. That is why a martyr's death must always be witnessed."

Lenyra does not plan to climb a pyre. But she will build one. Normally, she would take her time. Wind her narrative with spider silk. But urgency has taken root within her, and her fingers move through their craft quicker than usual.

Her dark eyelashes fan her cheeks as she looks down. Her words are as precise as a needle through cloth. "You were too young, of course, to have witnessed it." For a moment she imagines the lamb's pristine coat, its wet nose, its limpid eyes filled with trust. The silver knife descending in a sliver of light. The babe bleating as its parents crumple to the floor, life seeping from them with every stolen heartbeat.

"They were led to their slaughter by a rope they did not see, strung by those who had much to gain from it. But so many hands were present in that room, and so many eyes, all failing to catch a single detail. Blinded by shock, no doubt." Lenyra bites down on another grape, the white pillar of her throat bobbing as she swallows. She lets the words settle while the cries of the labyrinth continue to crest and fall, soft strings drifting through the music. Only when the lyre strains its final tune does she speak again.

"The Magisterium's finest. Unable to solve the murder of one of their own in broad daylight."

[riguangs]

he leans forward against the table, long sleeves of his robes sweeping across the surface, forearms resting on the wood. there is a certain glee that's easy to spot on his features at the sight of her, even if he's still surprised, he is always happy to see lenyra. at her words, confusion spreads across his expression, eyebrows furrowing, lips pursed. reactions all the more animated with the fact that there are enough drinks in his bloodstream to down a lesser man. some seconds pass, and maybe a few more, before he finds the answer. it only makes his eyebrows shoot up even higher, lips opening in a gasp. "oh!" he whispers the rest of his conclusion, although still loud enough to be heard through the music and chatter of the rest of the drunkards. a finger taps the side of his nose. "...your lover doesn't know you're here?" lian's not sure what she's here for, but that's the best guess he has, and fully believes it to be true. there is a moral judgement he can make here, and he doesn't. instead a hand goes to his heart, patting the fabric over his chest. "your secret's safe with me. you are sleeping in your villa tonight." not that lian knows who lenyra's with; if anyone asks, he'll say that he hasn't seen her at all tonight. that should be good enough. though his own sentence prompts the next question. "you're here to see a friend, then?" if he were sober, maybe he would have noticed it is too forward of an ask. drunk- there is no way he will hold himself back from asking. "let me know when you see them, and i'll disappear like the wind!" the pot of stew is closer to him now, and the waft of smell prompts another scrunch of his nose. a small snicker, he shakes his head. "enjoyment is everything when it comes to food though! compare it with the cuisine in your parties — this cannot be in the same category." his mouth waters at memory of caelestis buffets, rivaling even the food made in zhou house by great chefs. the statement of him being far from home is quickly brushed away, with another wide smile and a gesture of his hand. "oh, i always hang around in the lower city, the taverns are great to make new friends and have a fun night out-" her question about sheng pins him in place, and he tilts his head one side and the other. "he... maybe knows? it's not really his type of fun though, so i don't bother him with it." some of the truth, if not in full. the elder zhou would likely disapprove him being here, and lian doesn't really see eye to eye on that, finding no harm in places such as this one. at the mention of friends, he briefly turns around to wave at them, raising his jug, which prompts another round of cheers. "yeah! i met them a few hours ago. they know how to sing - taught me a few songs already." attention back on lenyra now, the grin widens. "let me buy your next drink? it's going to be no match to your wines, but it's not half bad."

[aenaos]

The narrative Lenyra wove promptly tangles and knots as he misses her hints and stumbles into a sordid tale of his own. In response, she leans her head against her palm, fingers reaching up to smooth the thin veins webbing over her temple. Sweet, dumb boy.

"Thank you, Lian," Lenyra replies, low and even. Her eyes drift to a nearby table, where a pair of dice players peer at her with judgment. "I knew I could count on you." Her gaze returns to his open palm, resting over his open heart. Vows roll so easily off his tongue. A thing to be noted. Brushing another errant curl beneath her veil, she adds, "A friend of sorts." Her contact is supposed to bring new information on the sudden levies constricting commerce on Weaver's Street. She suspects one of the merchants there desires a monopoly and has struck a bargain with a local administrator. Such clear evidence of back-alley diplomacy would be a useful thread to keep up her sleeve.

But tonight she will go home without either arms or means, and with a detour added to her schedule. "I fear I've been abandoned tonight, cara, left to my own company." She grants him a luminous smile, her ivory teeth like pearls, moonlike melancholy inlaid with forbearance. "Instead of the wind, would you be my anchor and stay with me?" Her hand settles over his for a brief moment, then returns to her lap. The gesture is a clear signal. Her contact, having just entered, stills in the doorway. He immediately turns and slips back into the night. Now she must strip the loom and begin anew.

A soft breath escapes her that isn't quite a laugh. "Flattering, but few things are. It is true pride myself on offering my guests only the finest delicacies, but were I to eat such fare myself each day, my coffers would soon be emptied." In private, she prefers the simple bounties of the earth: the golden crust of freshly baked bread, the earthy flavor of nuts, the slow-dripping sweetness of honey, and the dark mouths of figs.

"Hm?" Lenyra cocks her head, her eyes finding Lian's "friends" over his shoulder once more. They may be of the genuine sort, but she has not lived this long by overestimating the kindness of others. "What sort of songs?" Sheng does not know. Sheng... might tear apart the lower city brick by brick if he did, so for all their sakes, she will keep her silence. "I will take 'not half-bad' over 'not very good'." Her voice ripples between them, faintly teasing. "And once you return, you may regale me with a song, so I know whether or not I have a future performer on my hands."