Staring at the Sun

Though he rots in his corruption, deadly roses still bloom from his decay.

[arseniist-blog]

January 11th Os Alta -- the Gardens @ritajakov (for liking this post)

Their was panic in the air. A word was jumping from roof to roof, rafter to rafter, and head to head -- it was the cause of it all. Plague. It was a terrifying though. Disease? Nasty, ugly, detestable. And this plague? Well there was talk that it would infect the Grisha as well. That it would infect everyone. If a cure wasn’t found than, theoretically, this could be the end of Ravkan society as they all knew it.

Of course, Arsen preferred not to think of it like that. In fact, he preferred not to think of it all. He hadn’t noticed any symptoms yet (or he had been pointedly ignoring them, some might say) and was going about, business as usual. As an inferni, he had know use in the cathedral. As someone so beautiful and perfect, he didn’t need to be exposed to something so disgusting and dirty. So he didn’t. He carried on in Os Alta, continuing as normal. And normal for Arsen? Included disparaging Rita Jakov every chance he got.

“Well, well,” he said as a familiar face came into view, a sneer curling the corners of his lips. He looked cruel and cold, a stark contrast to the flames he could control. “Look what the cat dragged in. Unable to make a puking pig look pretty? Can’t blame you there.”

[arseniist-blog]

Like this post if you’d like a starter from Arsen. 

[feliksbazin-blog]

date: january 14th, year two time: 1:34 pm location: outside the cathedral availability: open to all

Feliks tended to avoid thinking about his death–well, not the actual death part, but the afterwards. He didn’t deny that he saw nothing. In fact, it was the nothingness that often fueled his actions. Still, he didn’t want to think about the void. With nothing but madness and pain around him, there wasn’t much else to occupy his mind. Feliks could feel himself losing his head before stage two even began. It was boredom, really. He was becoming too weak to do his job, but not weak enough to completely numb his mind. 

He had to get out. 

In the chaos of the fully stocked cathedral, all the healers and the patients undeniably preoccupied, Feliks was able to slip past the doors with ease. He wasn’t sure if anyone would particularly care that he was leaving, but everyone seemed to have an opinion on everything. And he didn’t want to hear it. He wasn’t alone in the hallway, but he was so desperate to escape his own festering thoughts that he didn’t mind. People, as annoying as they could be, were often good distractions. 

“As much as I love human cesspools,” Feliks started, speaking at the person instead of to them, “it’s a little stuffy in there.”

The plague’s symptoms seemed to hit him harder outside the parameters of the makeshift infirmary. He could feel beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, drenching his back. He was still in his uniform–because as much as his position as guard felt like a prison, he didn’t know what else to be. It definitely wasn’t the best clothing for a fever, but he refused to take it off. This made his cheeks flush and his head feel light, but he leaned against the wall and attempted to make it look casual. 

“Besides, I don’t know why people aren’t taking advantage of a nearly empty Os Alta. I’m sure no one’s outside, and there’s plenty to do,” he wasn’t sure what he was saying anymore, but he said it anyway. If he was being honest, he didn’t have the appetite for adventure–or even the outdoors. But anything was better than being haunted by his own death. He looked down the hallway and away from his company, trying to hide how glassy his eyes were. If he appeared as sick as he felt, they’d send him back to the miserable cathedral where he’d make a slow descent into madness–at the hands of boredom, not the plague. “Everyone’s wasting the opportunity by sitting in there and trying to get better.”

[arseniist-blog]

Arsen liked to think he was better than others. He liked to think he was something else, something important. How right or wrong he was, well... The was for you and you alone to decide. He didn’t want to hear whatever it is you believe about him. To him, it was fact that he was just better. Better than you, better than the person next to you. There were few that he would call equals and perhaps it was a dubious honor to be called that by someone so vain and narcissistic.

Ah, but did any of that really matter at that moment? There was sickness in the air, thick and suffocating, and Arsen’s hands were trembling. If he’d thought stepping outside, into the sun and bracing chill of a Ravkan day, would help him, he was wrong. He would’ve been much better off holed back up in his bed like he’d been the past few days. 

Arsen had loathed the idea of coming out. He loathed the idea of anyone seeing him like this, trembling, with dark circles under his eyes. He might’ve been in bed the past few days but sleep had alluded him for most of it. He just hadn’t wanted anyone to see him like that, hadn’t wanted anyone to see him weak and miserable. It was pathetic. Sure, it wasn’t like he was the only one affected -- everyone was -- but, as they said, ‘pride goeth before a fall’. If that didn’t fit Arsen to a T...

The Inferni’s mind was jumbled. That was less about the sickness and more about the distraught in being in such a vulnerable position. Panic followed bizarre thoughts and bizarre thoughts followed panic in a unseemly game of chase. He’d thought maybe some fresh air would clear his mind but he was wrong. What a time to be alive -- Arsen was wrong.

He was pulled from his distracted state but an unfamiliar voice. Glancing over, his brow furrowed as he listened to the other ramble. “I’d think it goes hand-in-hand. That’s where the sick people are so that’s where the healers are and since that’s where the healer’s are, that’s where the sick people go,” he replied. “Then again, sickness rarely makes sense. Just don’t bring them to Os Alta. There are still some people there and no one wants them.”

[arseniist-blog]

iskraraevsky:

    He reminded her of the dolls that her mother used to buy for her – though they collected dust rather than the adoration they were meant for. Arsen? He collected adoration like a banker, taking it in and assessing it with cold frankness, believing that it was something to be owed rather than treasured. Did his roguish lips even know the feeling of a genuine smile? Were the muscles necessary for a bout of sincere, lighthearted laughter aching from their disuse? Her lips opened to poise that very question – because nothing could stifle her frank curiosity, save for food, drink, or the like – until she was met with a question of Arsen’s own making. Except these questions were not based upon sincere curiosity, but something quite different. 

   Rudeness. Contempt. Belittling.  

   Then again, perhaps he had suffered an incident that robbed him of his hearing. Oh, what a burden, it must be – to be deprived of the sound of his own voice, she thought to herself sourly. Although, it was probably written all over her face – with the wrinkle of her nose and the way her mouth pursed into a frown. Placing her fists on her hips, she cast her eyes around to see who was in the vicinity. Whether or not they were people who would glare at her for what she was about to do next. 

        “I SAID,” she more or less shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth. “ARE YOU TOO GOOD TO TALK TO POOR LITTLE, HUMAN LOVING ISKRA?”

       “I MISS TRAINING WITH YOU AND WATCHING YOU STARE AT YOUR REFLECTION IN THE BACK OF THE SPOON.”

   Grabbing a flute from a passing waiter ( who had the capacity to know that staring, at this point, would not be considered rude ), she sipped it, raising her thick brows at her unfortunate companion from the rim of the glass. After wetting her throat, she cleared it, then shamelessly continued on. 

    “BUT IT’S OKAY, I’M NOT GOING TO ASK YOU TO SUBJECT YOURSELF TO ASSOCIATING WITH THOSE BENEATH YOU.”

        Instead I’m going to make you.

There a strong and sincere urge to roll his eyes as she placed her hands on her hips and shouted at him. Petulant. It was the first word that sprung to mind at the sight of her posture, at the send of her anger -- a petulant child, angry that he’ll no longer player with her. It certainly ruins any hope of a semi-pleasant conversation, any hopes of walking and returning to his fun and games. There’s no denying or playing off her words; she’s made a scene and dragged him in as her partner, quite unwillingly.

Then again, what did he expect of her? Of Iskra Raevsky?

“Honestly--”

And that’s a lie already because when is Arsen ever honest? When it suits him, of course, and that’s rarely every the case; half-truths, yes, but the whole truth is basically a disaster in disguise. Arsen can spin lies a spider can spin a web, strong, enchanting, and beautiful. They are, however, still lies.

“--I think you’ve had a bit much to drink. There’s certainly no need for you to shout like that in here. It’s small and crowded; your voice carries.” You could easily mistake Arsen for someone else in that moment; gone is the warmth and the fire, that beauty that draws in people (fools) like a lantern in the dark -- in it’s place is something cold and icy, something so chilling you can’t imagine it’s ever touched an inferno.

“If you’d really like to talk, I’d be happy to, Iskra, but only once you’ve cleared your head.”

[arseniist-blog]

ira-sorokin:

It was a rather anthropological experience to wander about the room, fiercely drinking her kvas and listening to parts of one conversation or another. Ira learned much about otkazat'sya and Grisha alike, for though such social opportunities were rare, they were rich in details. There were conversations about fashion and how beautiful or rather dull dresses and jewels were. There was a bit of war and prospects of Ravka’s future. A little poison here and there concerning the Grisha. But more often than not, there was gossip. A lot of it, in fact.

It was no different in both circles. It felt as though everyone wanted a taste of it. Grisha and otkazat'sya alike. She learned about stranger’s sex lives, and also about sin. And it was amusing to see, once she got tired of walking and settled for a specific spot, how there was one Grisha in particular leading a conversation as this. He was shinning amongst the others. Displaying just the right move and pronouncing the right words to lure them all in. One thing Ira had to grant with a subtle smile: Arsen was really good at this. Better than most women and men she saw during the night, practicing the same sin. 

He seemed amused, almost pleased, with how they all fell for his story, and though she liked to watch them all dance to that poisonous music, Ira wanted no part of it. But Arsen didn’t seem to catch the hint.

“Oh, for the love of– fuck,” Ira muttered to herself, eyes rolling as if by mere effort they could fall out alongside her ears, but luck was never quite her strength. They would remain exactly where they were and force her to both see and hear the Inferni. “I’m not drunk enough for it, darling. But thanks. I’m sure there’s quite a few tricks you can enlighten me on… maybe some other time, hm?”

Arsen smirks with amusement at the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl he’s caught in his simple question. An unwilling subject, obviously, but not prey. He’d never called this blood-soaked girl prey. But he’d smirk in amusement as she mutters to herself, grumbles and rolls her eyes -- much to the shock of the gathered crowd and the scandalized Mrs. Avdeyev. But who cares about Mrs. Avdeyev in her fur throw and softly glimmering jewels? Not Arsen -- he’s not concerned with humans who will be nothing but dust and dirt in short time.

Ira swears. It’s... interesting. He’s not surprised that this wild thing of a woman swears, especially in public, but it’s also not something Arsen is as familiar with. 

Arsen doesn’t swear. It’s not a ‘never has, never will sort of thing’ -- he’ll swear when he’s drunk and in the company of his brothers, around Shona and Luka and Valerian, but not in a place like this, surrounded by people like them. Arsen has an image -- beautiful and golden -- that he must maintain. Swearing is a part of that image; fuck isn’t a word that fits in that mouth. Around friends or locked up in his carefully guarded thoughts but not around strangers, not around ‘nobles’. It’s a vulgarity he won’t display but it amuses him nonetheless, to see and hear the flip-side of the coin.

All that said... “Language, dear,” he responds as his smirk shows two things: humor and mocking. That’s cute, it says while also saying: don’t you realize where we are? It’s almost insulting. It’s almost patronizing. Almost, because Arsen is never quite those things -- it’s there but not enough to be considered concrete. A fleeting image, never proof. And it’s gone like that, like a snap of two fingers, all the shadows swept away like cobwebs into something lighthearted and joking. “I think you’re scandalizing the crowd, Ira. You might give them a heart attack and I’m not sure any of the Healers are sober enough to help in that case.”

[arseniist-blog]

gemmapavlova:

His admission prompts a knowing half-nod from her, her icy gaze wandering elsewhere as he spoke. Stepping out for a breath of fresh air had seemed a simple enough thing to do—quiet, harmless, and if she was lucky (and she wasn’t, as fate so insistently wanted to remind her), unnoticed—but for all her meager hopes that a few moments alone might bring her back to herself, she’d been wrong. The stale corridor air had done little to dispel the tightness in her chest, and if she was being wholly honest with herself—which she certainly should’ve been, given she couldn’t be sure anyone else was, nothing would.

Her loss had left a gaping hole in the cavity of her chest, and every breath whistled right on through.

She’s just begun to relax around him, the coldness of her stature melting like the wax of a candle, when he strikes a nerve, delivering an opinion on the fete and its human guests scathing enough to make a soldier flinch. And then she’s withdrawn again, closed up like a set of prettily-carved double doors, and the light in her hands scatters into nothingness in response. “I see.” And she does, though she sees something entirely different from what he may have intended her to; she sees the ugly side of the Small Science, and in the whirlwind of the moment, she’s too haughty—too defensive, too proud—to recognize that there’s an ugly side of normalcy, too.

She would know; after all, she was raised on it.

“Are we not also made of dirt?” And she sounds curious, thoughtful, despite the ink-black anger boiling in her veins, and though she doesn’t know it, she parallels a man far more knowledgeable than either of them on the subject, on the world: are we not all things? “Surely a man like yourself can’t be constructed of something as weak as gold.” Yet perhaps he is—the tarnished sort.

He watches her in the silent moments that pass, the beats between their sentences -- their thoughtfulness, their melancholy, two people trying to find something refreshing in the air that is chokingly stale. He watches her nod and watches the slow shifting of her posture, the loosening that signifies relaxation. And then... 

It’s gone. That’s not a surprising reaction. Curious, perhaps, to Arsen; at the same time though, he understands it from a purely theoretical point of view. There are plenty of Grisha who’d rather kiss the shoes of the otkazat’sya, pretend to fit in among their earthly presences then acknowledge the fact that the Grisha are something more. It’s not a reaction that Arsen could ever fully understand but he’s observed enough to know their thought process. Their wrong thought process. 

There’s a small curl to his lips, barely noticeable in the dim light slipping out from beneath the door to the ballroom and the small candles that dot the walls. It’s there though, cruelly amused. 

Are you uncomfortable?

Do you think we should be servants?

Do you know how wrong you are?

He says none of that though. Even a few glasses into the night, Arsen can bite his tongue and hold his words. He understands the importance of words, the ones you say, the ones you mean, and the ones you keep back. Plausible deniability. More so with those couple drinks down his throat. Arsen is careful and guarded in his actions, thoughtful beneath his carefully crafted and sturdily built veneer of the carefree boy with a tongue of gold.

“Not gold, dear. Gold is beautiful -- and so am I,” he laughs, “but I like to think I made of something... brighter. And hotter. And longer-lasting.”

[arseniist-blog]

stasyabelov:

Stasya has managed to keep their head above thus far, which gives them a false sense of hope for the rest of the night. So far, they’ve listened to three stories of strife and heartbreak–most including a bad meal or a difficult day of work–and they’ve consoled everyone accordingly. After all, this is what they’re good for: validating people, making them feel heard, allowing them to shed a bit of weight from their heart. Over the years they have learned that they’re rarely expected to say a word. Instead, they merely listen for a few minutes. A nod of their head, an upward flinch of the corners of their lips, a soft caress on the other’s arm. Usually, they enjoyed this routine; making others feel better made them feel better. Tonight, it’s just draining, and they’re glad that no conversation has lasted for long. 

After one last smile, the woman leaves Stasya standing on their own once again. They take it as an opportunity to unwind, to watch everyone around them and drink in the story of the night. It’s almost comforting, to step away from their personal struggles for a moment without having to get involved. It is less exhausting to watch than it is to listen. At the moment, they’re wrapped up in a couple dancing on the edge of the floor. The two of them are in their own world, their mouths speaking words only the two of them can hear. When they dance, it looks like much more than a dance. It looks like love. Suddenly, people-watching isn’t so consoling. I could’ve had that, they think. 

Luckily, another quick distraction saves them. They hear a cluster of laughter to the right of them, and they’re almost surprised to find Arsen in the middle of it all. As they listen, they fix their eyes on the ground. They aren’t sure what the Inferno is trying to say–they don’t dare get themself entangled in the situation–but they listen idly regardless. When the crowd finally begins dissipating, Stasya does their best to wander away as well. Perhaps they’ll find someone new to listen to, someone new to comfort across the room. They should have known, however, that they can’t simply pass the group of people without being wrapped into it. 

“Love advice?” Stasya makes eye contact with Arsen for only a moment. They do their best to come off inconvenienced, perhaps completely careless. They remember the couple dancing in their orbit; they remember what they lost too soon. “I’m afraid I don’t need any romantic guidance at the moment. Thank you for the offer, though.”

“No? No handsome or pretty things pining after you?” 

He grins and it’s... It’s not mocking -- he’s not mocking Stasya for turning down his offer. As someone who doesn’t really ‘do’ romantic love, he’s not going to mock anyone for something that applies to him. That would be hypocritical and hypocrisy is just so ugly. Arsen is pretty -- a tad narcissitic, yes (with good reason, Arsen would like to add), and more than a little judgmental, definitely (also with good reason, according to Arsen, again) -- but undeniably beautiful, with blue winter eyes and a smile that shines like the stars. 

No, his grin is not mocking but there is a hidden edge to it. Their words may seem innocuous enough but the tone they’re said in strikes a chord in Arsen. A challenge, maybe, but certainly some nerve. That edge whispers it’s own words; got no one to love? are you not worth loving? or do you think I don’t know what love is? Even Arsen’s insults make it about him.

Of course, none of this is said. He bring his drink to his lips -- a flute of something warm and bubbly, crisp, refreshing, and golden. His grin peaks out from behind the rim of the glass. A passerby might mistake it for a friendly, joking look; indeed, it’s entirely possibly that Stasya could too, though he makes no assumptions. They could read the challenge from his look -- read it for something more sinister than it is, something darker, or for what it really is, a result of his ego and the few glasses of champagne he’s had already. They could also not see it all. 

Arsen is playing games. Again. Is anyone that shocked? Or shocked that he doesn’t even give them a chance to say something about his tune before he’s changing it, before he’s shaved off that edge and made every word as smooth and round as to be expected coming from him? 

“You know, it’s a shame,” he states, the flute grasped between his fingers and held at his side as he stares at the crowd. If you’d notice the challenge a moment ago, you might’ve thought it a trick of the senses now -- Arsen sounds softer, suddenly, gentler even if that’s possible for a boy who burns as bright as the stars. “You always seem so good at listening to people... If there’s someone out there, they’re missing out.”

And there’s that honey. That sweetness that turns people into addicts for his words.

[arseniist-blog]

zahkarov:

Private thoughts stowed away in the many chambers of her, lips pinched in distaste with every waft of perfumed skin, secretive laughter taunting her, willing her to leave. Torturous, the only word appropriate for the occasion. Fingers remained knitted in violet fabric, eyes vacant as she allowed her imagination to travel out of the confines of the hall. There were far more greater, more enthralling activities that her time could be spent on. But instead, she was another body supplied to the event, with little choice in whether she thought her attendance was mandatory or not. If anyone had cared to ask, not that they had, they would have known that Arina had spent many days as a child shutting herself away from those kind of social gatherings, so she felt less enthused about them in adulthood. 

Caught in the shadows, she watched with limited interest, the way bodies moulded to one another when conversation struck, souls connecting over mutual fascination or a game to be played. Arina knew that many were her intellectual equal, although she wondered if their passion for it was as unwavering as her own. It was infuriating to know that instead of being forced to mingle, she could have been hovering over books, crafting her next flavour of poison. 

Falsehoods caressed too many features, and she felt faith in so few. If her mother were at the palace, she knew certain that Liliya would have fluttered about, a golden butterfly in the prime of her life - It was the expected outcome from Arina, how she’d disappointed. 

Stiffing a groan, when an animated couple decided to scurry into the corner for loud chatter, Arina moved with irritation away. She walked past warm bodies, keeping her hands and thoughts to herself, when another turned to face her. The misguided query caused an eyebrow to raise, boredom pressed into the features of her face. 

“I can’t imagine why I would want to.”

An expression of boredom. Arsen has seen it before, will see it again -- it’s those faces he likes to take as challenge and also to store away, another bit of info into the library he keeps in his head. The girl in front of him isn’t interested in the subject of romance. Perhaps she just doesn’t want advice but from the flatness of her tone and the tilt of her expression, Arsen is led to believe that it’s a general lack and not anything specific. Oh well. It doesn’t surprise him that much; he’s seen this girl around, though he doesn’t know her well (can’t even recall her name). She’s in a different order and always seems to have her head stuck in a book; can you blame him?

There is, however, a hint of challenge in her reaction though. The words and raised eyebrow -- they’re faint and subtle but they’re there. Arsen reads challenge from them too. Do you have something to say that would interest me? Do you have something worth the time you’re wasting? It sends a shiver up his spine. Arsen loves a good challenge and the coldness in her eyes offers it.

What does he say to a girl that he doesn’t know? Like that’s an actual question. Charming and dashing and calculative; one of these thing is not like the others but they all describe the person Arsen is and the persona he wears. He knows what to say and what to do to extract himself from any sticky situation or any awkward encounter. This little misstep? This small hurdle? Covered, and the words pour from his mouth like gold within seconds. Not a beat passes of awkward or tense silence -- it never does if the Inferni can help it.

“My apologies then, miss,” he responds, offering her an apologetic smile. “I’m not keeping you from a lover am I? No? Good.” 

He doesn’t actually wait for her response before he’s flagging down one of the servants. Arsen dislikes kvas in settings like these, always preferring something lighter, more bubbly. He’s not got the type of arrogance that leads for him to order for someone else though.

“And my companion here will have what it is she wants--” the first part is directed at the servant but he turns to the redhead then. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name. I’m Arsen.”

[anastasialantsov]

GLIMPSE OF CHAOS

TIME&LOCATION — 11PM & Ballroom CLOSED to @arseniist

     Red & Blue — It was becoming a game for her as every kefta was a puzzle to be solved, and every combination held a different answer that many within the court did not care to figure out. For Anastasia, the answers were worth every second it took to solve them, and it was within her deep concentration that she realized that she was observing a bit too much. It could have been several minutes since she had looked away, so there was no reason that the grisha in her sights would shift out of view, testing to see if she really was watching them.

     “I — I apologize for looking so long. It’s just… Your kefta is beautiful,” she said with little inclination if the other would return a response as there was a large rift between those at the Grand Palace and those at the Little. It was different for the princess as her heart longed for a connection with anyone she came in contact with. No care was placed in whether the other was grisha or human as they still bled the same color as she, and it made the next move so much more interesting as her hand extended out. “I feel formal introductions make for an easier conversation. I’m Anastasia Lantsov.” 

[arseniist-blog]

For such a petite woman, her gaze is surprisingly heavy. Arsen supposes there is a reason for that but they’ve garned the gaze and attention of many lofty members of the court during this event and in past ones. They’re the type of person that draws attention the way a lit candle draws moths. They notice her gaze though as they’re deep in conversation with some Duke; they’re discussing the politics of a foreign nation, a boring subject worthy of a large yawn, when they notice the princess out of the corner of their gaze. They’re grateful for the conversation to end, curious to know what caught the attention of royalty.

“It’s no matter,” they reply, smiling at her -- it’s warm and personable, kind in the light of the room, masking the fact that Arsen is anything but. She certainly looks like royalty in the outfit she dons. There is a brief moment of envy at the freedom she gets but it’s so brief it can’t even change the look in their eyes. “I do my best to keep it pristine. I loathe dirt.” And that is a true fact. Arsen Tarasov can be quite the neat freak. Honestly though -- who would find some covered in mud and insects, completely unkempt, attractive? 

They bow and take her hand and draw it to their lips, placing a gentle peck on the back of it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady. My name is Arsen Tarasov.”

[arseniist-blog]

valerianpetrov:

The two used to be an unstoppable pair. They could command an entire room, an entire ballroom, just with their dazzling smiles alone. People flocked to them like moths to the flame, and that’s exactly what they provided for them. A show, unlike any they’ve ever seen, full of life and mystique, never knowing what they were going to do next. It was the perfect double act.

But now, Valerian could not pull himself to act remotely as he used to. He found it useless, tragically irritating without a semblance of a point. He let his counterpart do all the theatrics, knowing that his mind remained pure and intact, unlike his addled one. 

Even though Valerian could never pull of the feats he once did, it was impossible for himself to separate from his brother. If he didn’t already feel incredibly isolated as it was in the ballroom, he knew he’d be utterly alone without Arsen at his side. So, he put his back to the spectators of Arsen’s newest act, crossing his arms over his chest, but making sure that he was close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed one another’s. Valerian was there, like he used to be, but it was far from a perfect picture.

The scene was clearing out now, and Valerian felt as if he could breathe again. He turned around, a ghost of a grin etched up on his lips. “Not at all. I’m really not the best at giving love advice, don’t you think?” His smile was sour, his demeanor was a grimace. “And I swear, if you bring around another group of these fools, I’ll kill you. I seriously will, in front of all these witnesses.”

Is it bad luck that it’s Valerian he stops? Inopportune, certainly. Inappropriate, possibly. 

The last person Arsen should be offering love advice to is Valerian and they both know that, both know that Arsen has never loved another person like that and that Arsen barely loves as is. That the only person Arsen has ever truly loved, that unconditional, all-consuming, and irrevocable love, is Valerian. Because Valerian is his brother and Arsen would put himself through hell for him. It’s an undeniable sort of love but it’s not the type he was talking about today. Familial love just doesn’t make for the same show-stopper or conversational piece as romance.

He doesn’t apologize though and also doesn’t bring it up. He leaves it in the air, ignores it as he grins at his brother and hugs him. It’s not like Valerian hasn’t been hanging out behind his back and in the corner’s of vision but still. Arsen has had a bit of champagne and he’s also pretty tactile when it comes to those he trusts (the few that there are).

“Then I won’t be around to distract these ‘groups of fools’ away from you and it’d completely defeat your original purpose,” he teases. Playful, light as a feather – there’s always a hint of mischief in Arsen but he looks genuinely happy in that moment. And he is. Because here is Valerian and Valerian is his brother and that can always light up his night.

Arsen glances at the retreating and dispersing figures of the people he’d just entertained; he’s not sad to see their backs; “they were a rather pathetic crowd tonight though, weren't they? They just ate up everything I said. Those weren’t even my really good stories.” He lets out a disappointed sigh and rolls his eyes, his arm thrown over Valerian’s shoulder. “Simpering, blathering idiots,” he murmurs, his face contorted with contempt. It’s brief, lasting a second, and then it’s back to that mischievous smile and daring look. 

“What are we going to do now, dear?”

[arseniist-blog]

rheateresh:

Ah, how she floats around the room. None see, of course — they never catch her coming, never care to.. at first. Although, they certainly do watch as she goes. This, a burden – perhaps. To be a thing of intrigue, to warrant attention and affection as all marvelous creatures do, but as a certain Inferni, she thrives on the notice she draws. A sun soaked rose, indeed, as she basks in flattery with all her sharp edges which hook and catch, the ego which has not forgotten in being unextraordinary. She needn’t be so unique, not when she could be so very disastrous. Watch her, she insists, for history undoubtedly does, and it will remember her name. Rhea Tereshkin, it hisses of her, as in the manner which all hexes, curses and jinxes are spoken. Violently, hushed. 

For all the court thought of her, a wolf assuredly lay beneath that impenetrable flesh — a private beast, precarious and biding time. Ah, didn’t they know? The worst predators know how to bide their time, they understand that the hunt is a waiting game. So, she’ll prowl in the tall grass with her savage eyes peering out, listening as a man lay his ego bare, ugly and exposed. How unattractive, she mused. Pride, it was meant as a intimate thing, as paramours — kept in the dark, kissed harshly on the mouth in veneration. Or so she believed. Then, Rhea had many beliefs which differed from those about her, in their rich keftas and heavy gowns. Nevertheless, he interested her. After all, a creature of habit, was she not? Indulging those about her with wit, inviting a challenge as the aggressive, primal woman that she was. 

You think yourself great then? I will see about that, she assures, quiet and unspoken.

Rhea, with a gentle ( is she ever truly? ) hand on the gentleman’s shoulder, a grin fitting her lips as a cat stretching in the sun — languid, yet never absent of mischief. “Iosif, will you not leave the boy be? Then, how magnetic he must be, to have drawn you so close,” the teasing inflection in her voice, it’s enough to shame — but if it had, the man’s cheeks had been far too flushed in drunkenness to betray his embarrassment. Not that she cares, pushing past him softly, a gloriously wretched thing stalking forth on its haunches. 

As she does, there is an arch in her brow, the careful tilt of her head to one angle in curiosity: of his sentiments, of her thoughts on them; half her smile, as well, dropping — though increasing, steadily, in playfulness. “Do you suppose I need it?”

She sounds sweet, a sort of sweetness that tickles his ears and curls his lips. Her dark eyes, the delicate arch of her brow, the curious tilt of her head... It’s an expression he’s seen and he’s played. Of course, there’s an innocence to her look that makes it hard to suggest their’s anything lurking beneath it and so he doesn’t. She is stranger, a lady of the court that he’s never seen before (not that Arsen spends much time wrapped up with humans), and too new (to him) to pass judgement on. She could be anything.

Anything below him.

She’s human, after all.

Arsen returns her smile, her sweet look though. If he’s insulted or annoyed by her question (he’s not, it intrigues him) he doesn’t show it. He looks her up and down, taking in her features, taking in the way she carries herself, reading for any small signs she’s displaying. If she realizes that he’s sizing her up, he has a perfectly valid excuse: she asked him to.

“I’m afraid I can’t say, Miss” he responds. “I don’t even know your name.” He’s just as playful, just as harmless. Someone once told Arsen that if he weren’t a Grisha, he should’ve been an actor. Arsen had, of course, balked at the idea of him being lesser. What a horrible thing had been to say to someone. Their sentiment, though, hadn’t been entirely off. Even Arsen can agree that he would’ve made a good bard.

In the background, the ruddy-cheeked man, too far into his kvas for his own good, seems completely oblivious to the exchange. He also seems to have forgotten his short exchange with the strange woman as he heartily proclaims to Arsen, “I’m going to get us more to drink and you’ll tell me more stories!” ‘Iosif’ doesn’t even wait for a response. 

Arsen shakes his head and lets out an exasperated sigh before leveling a look on the woman. “Is that a friend of yours, by any chance?”

[arseniist-blog]

daryavoronov:

She is passing by like a whisper on the wind when she hears him. His story is bland, but his delivery has the rhythm of a wave upon the shore, steady and alluring all the same in its predictability. So Darya listens; so she draws near, not as a sheep flocking to a prophet but as an academic, curious to know what this man (beautiful, tall, reeking of sweet arrogance) has to say on love. On young love, particularly.

And she thinks of her own. Remembers the first moment she laid eyes upon her first love, wonders if it was the same reaction as this young girl. Trembling, trembling in anticipation of all that would unfold. Was it instinct, that kept her eyes fastened for a beat longer than usual? Did the fox prince, that clever all-seeing and war-trained eye, catch her hesitation to look away?

Young love is very silly, Mrs. Avdeyev. 

Young love makes fools of us all, Darya thinks as she approaches, but does not all love do the same?

He hears her, and when he turns, Darya is sure to look as Ravkan nobility do: distant, detached, elegant. But she cannot help the added warmth in her eyes, the kind that cannot be stomped out by protocol and tradition. She’s sure that he sees it; somehow, those in the court always do, as if she is marked outsider in more ways than one.

His question brings a small smile to her lips. Thoughtfully, she says, “I prefer to accept love advice only from those who have been in love.”

The woman he stops isn’t a familiar face. Nobility, he thinks; she carries herself that way, that’s for sure, and she looks like no Grisha he’s seen around the Little Palace. A human that smiles at him, who humors him for a moment with a small challenge in her response. Arsen grins back, just as pleasantly, his tone teasing. 

“What makes you think I’ve never been in love?”

Arsen is a little insulted though. It’s not that it’s wrong -- Arsen hasn’t ever been in love with someone in the romantic sort of the word. He’s loved and the love is for Valerian, the love of a friend, a brother made. He’s seen what love has done to Val though, and to many others of the years, and the Inferni isn’t interested. People describe love as something that makes you weak in the knees, that makes your heart race uncontrollably... Why would he want that? Those are symptoms worthy of a trip to a healer.

Still, Arsen has seen enough love, talked to enough people, and read a few books -- he knows what love is, how varied and unique those experiences can be, and what it’s not. He knows how to use the type of love he’s felt for Valerian, for Shona and Luka, and reapply that to his tales, what to take and what to leaves. He can tell stories of being in love and crowds eat them up. 

He’s good at pretending to be in love because he’s a good actor and a good story-teller. In another life, Arsen might be a bard. In this one though, Arsen looks at the woman, the one that stands to his chin but keeps her head high, and waits. He is curious but calm, not giving way any of those thoughts and, especially, none of those truths.

[arseniist-blog]

leiyulkeung:

Love.

It was a concept Lei had heard of time and time again but had never experienced first hand. Well, romantic love. At one point he had been in a household chock full of love, but even that slipped through his finger tips after a while. One part of him longed for the comfort  that love provided. Love forgave. Love healed. People even say love makes the world go round, but he would argue that gravity and other forces were the cause of that. No, one part of him longed for love, but the other part knew he was better off without it.

With that mentality in mind, he simply listened from afar as the inferni spoke on about young endeavors in love. It was hard for Lei to really care much about the story– after all, listening to a tale about a nervous girl wandering up to a boy wasn’t exactly novel worthy– but he refused to put his mask down. He had perfected the cheerful, kind persona so long ago that to tuck it away, to release a little bit of the sadness and anger that lurked behind his eyes, would be too much. He learned to quiet his storm, to put his waves away until the right moment, and too laugh with the rest of the world.

So laugh he did. He chuckled when the crowd chuckled. He would laugh when the crowd laughed. One could call him a parrot, repeating what he sees. One could call him a chameleon, blending in with his surroundings. One could call him whatever they pleased as long as they didn’t look close enough to see his tired eyes and the frown that constantly tugged at his smile. 

Lei watched as one of the humans wandered over and placed his hand on the grisha’s back. Lei knew it wouldn’t happen, there were way too many humans in the area, but he half expected some flames to itch out of the man’s palm as the hefty man dared to touch the boy. He was fine with standing back and watching it all go down, but he figured he might as well join in on the fun. That’s what the sunshine boy he was appearing to be would do.

“I’m afraid i’m not too familiar with love, but i’ll listen to another tale if you have one.”

Arsen recognizes lots of faces; he’s good at categorizing them, slipping them away with a piece of (valuable) information -- the brunette with the small ears does this, the blonde boy with the very white teeth likes that. He’s not as good at remembering names as he is faces and gossip but a single charming smile and honey-like apology gets him that bit. This is another one of those cases. Dark eyes; a fellow Etherealki, Tidemaker, who smiles like a coddling beam of sunshine. But his name... It escapes Arsen in that moment; nonetheless, he grins. 

“Ah, no one that’s caught your eye? One day, as they say.” He grins at the rest of the gathered crowd and they chuckle.

“Well... What story I should tell.” He hums, like he’s got lots of them to tell. He’s got plenty like the story he originally regaled -- it’s such a common one -- but for love itself... It’s not something he really gives himself to. There is pleasure in flesh but love is born of something wholly different, a sort of connection he’s just not all that interested in fostering. 

He picks one though, quick as a beat, because he’s good at story-telling. And this is a story, even if they way he speaks and moves would lend you to believe it was truth. It’s half truth, to say; that’s where the best stories are, in half-truths that you can pad and gild with golden lies. He regales them the tale of the time he had a (short) affair with a girl who was engaged to someone she didn’t know; he leaves out the physical nature of relationship for the sake of propriety, tells them that they both had mutual feelings even though it had only been one-sided, but the ending is true.

“--Doroteya came to me the night before she was set to meet her engaged, begging me to run with her. We’d go somewhere else, figure out the details in some out-of-the-way province no one would ever look for us in. I told her I couldn’t leave the Little Palace and just abandon everything. That would be wrong. I consoled her though. She wouldn’t listen to any suggestions that he might not be so bad but she let me comfort her in other ways and with other words. Next morning, in turns out she was engaged to her childhood friend the entire time. He was a good man and it was a happily ever after for them.”

He doesn’t know that actually, since he hasn’t spoken to her since that day, and the comfort wasn’t nearly as innocent as he makes it out to be but they sycophantic audience eats it up. It’s got the right elements of good story: a forbidden love, a noble sacrifice, and a happy ending. People buy books about those sorts of tales. 

“Another lessen in tempering expectations, I suppose -- expectations that are good or bad,” he finishes. Arsen turns to the Tidemaker, grinning; “was that a satisfying tale, sir?”

[iskraraevsky-blog]

when fires die, coals remain

@arseniist

    She had been eyeing him from across the room in hopes that she might spot his ever-present companion, Valerian. They usually came attached at the hip, save for the few moments ( nights ) that she managed to catch the other alone. When she was with Valerian, she did not feel the same irritation that she often assumed Arsen had for her after being transferred into the king’s personal service. Now, when she confronted another Inferni there seemed to be nothing but frost in eyes that had once carried kindred flames. Had once curled their lips in a smile of greeting.

      “…There seems to be nothing but hate coming from you when we used to train together.”

   Iskra paused, her mouth slightly ajar in the realization that she had truly spat those words out like cold porridge. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she straightened her spine and pulled her shoulders back, seeming as if she truly meant those words. Crossing her arms, she cocked her head to the side with a small smile. Just pretend you meant to say it, pretend you meant to say it, pretend you meant to say it…

    “Too good to talk to little Iskra?”

[arseniist-blog]

If the room is a harp and the people are strings, then Arsen is a master musician. It’s hard not to make that comparison while he makes his round, drawing in people like a light, a flame, does moths. That’s a good comparison too, perhaps even more apt -- these humans, the ones drawn most to him, truly are like insects, adoring yet simple and beneath him. A pretty word, a sweet-tasting compliment -- people blush and and stutter, some men swallow thickly, their Adam’s apples bobbing. It’s fun though, all of this, all the reactions he gets, all the people he meets, all the potential victims he spies. This would be a perfect place for a short game...

And then he hears it. A familiar voice coming from a familiar face. And she’s... upset?

It takes a moment for Arsen to process. He blinks and smiles (perfunctory, pleasant but not sincere, the type he wears to all these sorts of events) but there’s confusion in his eyes. What? Where did she even come from? When in doubt, there’s one good option. Ask. “I think I misheard you. Can you repeat that, Iskra?” 

Oh it’s not that he doesn’t understand the words or the question. He doesn’t understand her asking. Since when does Iskra care what he’s doing and not Valerian? And since when it is news that Arsen disdains humans and their associates? Look at poor Rita -- everyone knows his beef with her, don’t they? 

“Again, repeat that?”

[arseniist-blog]

gemmapavlova:

“Needed a break, eh?” Not quite slurred, but spoken like a man well into his cups and skilled at navigating the treacherous waters of intoxication; she can’t say she doesn’t admire his poise—after all, she doesn’t quite trust herself enough to drink champagne like water—but it’s the colors the strange man is draped in that draw her attention, her light eyes settling on rich blue silk and cuffs red as a man’s blood (its hue is burned into the back of her mind from a number of encounters, all lingering in their own right but none significant enough to name). He’s an inferni, a fire summoner—Tarasov, she thinks, recalling one of several names she’d been offered upon being introduced to the fiery end of the summoners’ table at dinner, but his first name has long since faded from mind, leaving behind only the insatiable itch of having known and forgotten.

 But she remembers his face, as she does most of the burners (it makes sense, she supposes, that those who summoned such a demanding element as fire should refuse to be forgettable), and the familiarity is comforting, if only slightly. She returns his smile, closed-lipped and quiet, and nods. “I suppose I did.” And there mustn’t be any shame in admitting it, if his presence is any indication, but she knows better than to make assumptions. For all she knows, she might’ve stumbled across one of his favorite hiding places, one of his hallowed corners; the palace is as much a mystery to her as the people in it. “Perhaps I’m not the only one.”

Something in her relaxes at the admission, and she leans against a pillar, letting the chill of the marble seep into her bones and take root—a little comfort to keep her grounded; a little discomfort to keep her alert. “Is it always like this?” She flicks her fingers and droplets of silver fall like ash, a lukewarm rendition of his own power. “The ball, I mean. Is it always so much?” She’d known wealth before—had written in leather-bound ledgers and worn boots, bought new, but the extravagance of it all was foreign to a girl raised to be modest, to never show her hand for fear of having it stolen.

He recognizes her; he’s seen her blonde hair and her sharp features and her wide-set eyes. He’s heard talk of her too. Gemma... Arsen doesn’t remember her last name and, unbeknownst to him, she doesn’t remember his first name. Is that irony? Or just a cosmic joke? (Because, of course, anything that deals with Arsen must be something cosmic.) He can admire the way she keeps her head high though. He can notice the way she smiles back, even if it’s close-lipped, reserved. He can notice this girl who stands to his chin and not be offended.

“So many people... It can be suffocating.” Arsen doesn’t mind attention, thrives on it, and he enjoys entertaining the crowds on his terms. But he gets tired, like everyone, stifled beneath all the heavy eyes, all those weighty stares. Judging, waiting for him to mess up. Don’t they know? Arsen is as close to perfection as they’ll ever come. Their touches are filthy, their presences insignificant. No one forces you to be around an ant longer than you want so why does anyone expect of him when that ant just happens to be similarly shaped? “I needed a breath of fresh air.”

He thinks for a moment, hums beneath his breath -- it’s only a small sound though almost musical. Quiet but saying much. The hum is the closest you’ll get out of Arsen to a shrug most of the time. Shrugs are just so undignified, especially at something like the fete. “Yes, I suppose. Lots of people, lots of staring, lots of expectations. We’re brought into perform, of course, while all the humans laugh and jeer, and they expect it even outside of the schedules times.” Not that Arsen even minded a bit of entertainment but it was the sentiment. That expectation. That he was expected to serve their silly whims when it was he who was their better, not by status but by existence. “They bring out all their fines jewels and gowns, spend fortunes trying to look their best -- like stars when all they’re made of is is dirt.”

[arseniist-blog]

date: december 21st location: the grand palace ballroom time: 8:24 p.m. availability: open

There’s a laugh and it’s like music. There’s a smile and it’s art. He speaks and the words that fall out are gospel. At least that’s what one could believe, standing in the small cluster that has gathered around the blue-eyed Inferni. They adore him, eating up his every word, and Arsen lives for it. 

Arsen is versatile -- good in the heat of a fight or the fluidity of a conversation. It’s all action though and that’s all that matters; Arsen hates sitting on his rump, hates being quiet, hates being ignored. That’s not happening here. Here he is a star with his own field of gravity, dragging in every stray in the ballroom. It’s thrilling. It’s perfect. Some might have been bemoaning this event, groaning about the pomp and circumstance of it all, but Arsen has been positively giddy. Now he flourished and all was right.

“So... I’m fourteen and this girl comes over to me -- she’s practically trembling, a strong enough breeze would’ve knocked her over. She’s probably a year older than me, if that, and I’d seen her around Os Alta. I didn’t know her though, didn’t know her name or anything and I didn’t know what she wanted. I said hello to her and she started stuttering so badly I couldn’t make a word out. I asked her to repeat herself and she paused, turned on her heel, and then walked away. Didn’t see her again for months and she definitely didn’t talk to me afterwards. Never actually was able to make out what she said but I got the gist of it later after seeing it happen too many times to count.” The crowd around him laughs at his story while he turns to an older woman who is blushing, trying to hide her smile in her drink. “Young love is very silly Mrs Avdeyev but it’s harmless, I promise. Your daughter will be fine. If anything, in the future, she’ll just be embarrassed about all of this.”

A gentleman with a bushy mustache and at least a decade on Arsen claps him on the back, laughing much too hard as he compliments Arsen on his ‘message’ and ‘philosophy’. Like this red-faced human knows anything about philosophy. Arsen chuckles with tight drawn lips, discreetly managing to shrug off the hand and brush at his kefta. He’s spared more interaction when he hears footsteps approaching; Arsen turns to the source of the sound, beaming in that charmingly inviting way he does, the way that’s neither kind nor cruel and draws the masses in.

“It seems I’m giving out love advice tonight. Want to join?”

[gemmapavlova-blog]

INTERRUPTED— date: december 21st, year 1 location: the grand palace ballroom time: 9:00 p.m. availability: open to all

Perhaps the most peculiar thing about the evening is what strikes her most: not the beauty of it all—the Grand Ballroom’s elaborately painted ceilings, the glittering necklines of noblewomen dripping in jewels, the richly woven tapestries adorning the walls—but the difference in her, the way she’s holding her glass, holding her posture, holding her breath: a girl cast aside turned woman under scrutiny. It’s a change she supposes she should welcome—one she supposes many would, yet she’s become so enthralled in making sense of it all that she no longer remembers where the flute in her grasp came from, nor who she’s agreed to wait there for, patient and preoccupied; she knows only her need to breathe, to take a moment and regroup, and at the first opportunity, she slips out into the corridor like a wisp of smoke, silent and champagne-warmed.

For a child who had once feared the dark as fiercely as she’d loved all else, she’s remarkably grateful for its embrace now, for the respite it provides from the bright and boisterous celebration on the other side of the mahogany door, and she ventures a bit deeper into it, lets the moonlight streaming in through a nearby window dance about her fingertips—a cheap trick, to be sure, but one she’s grown rather adept at, so much that she’s found specks of silver on her skin some nights, and specks of gold some mornings (and it’s warm, so warm—it always is). And for the first time in what feels like hours, the Sun Summoner draws in a breath and releases it, uninhibited and uninterrupted.

Freedom comes in small doses; deprivation has made her ravenous.

But then the door behind her creaks open, and she turns, elegant chin high and blue eyes slightly widened—wary, waiting, as if she’s had the chance, as of late, to be anything else.

[arseniist-blog]

The room is bright, chandliers and candles all burning, their light reflected in the jewels the nobles wear and in the glasses they hold. He is bright too -- his smile, his hair, his charm. Arsen works the small crowd of Grisha and nobles that flock to him, telling them stories, feeding them lines. There’s a dazzling grin on his lips and he’s drunk. Not on the alcohol or the champagne but on all the decadence and all the attention. This is the sort of place he deserves. All this gold, all the diamonds... The Little Palace isn’t as dreadful as most of the Ravkan countryside but Arsen always deserves better.

So he says, at least.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve anything more than his flames, to keep him comfort, and the clothes on his back. He isn’t as battle-tested as Valerian is. He’s got a big head and a bigger ego; there are some people that see that but there are many that don’t. Arsen doesn’t. He knows he’s great, knows that all his flaws are merely results of being surrounded by lesser creatures so often -- being forced to serve them, forced to entertain them. Like now. It’s draining and not even stars have endless sources of energy. 

Words fly, whispers crawl, he’s downed two and a half glasses of champagne and he finds himself leaving the main crowd. He’s not creeping or skulking; he keeps his head held high and doesn’t bother with excuses. No one stops him as he steps outside. It’s cooler here, away from all the packed-in bodies, but it’s not cold. Anyways, fire licks his insides and the only thing ever cold about him is his startlingly blue eyes.

He notices the girl, wary but proud. He grins at her; it’s not lewd, not lascivious; he might have had a little to drink but Arsen is always composed, always stunning, always golden. “Needed a break, eh?”