i guess you're my little pogchamp

[bomnotz]

"It is a bit amusing that you've found your way here." Well, it may as well have been a can of fish, all things considered. Their shrine was the weakest point of this 'singularity', after all. Not in a way that announced itself- it was well-defended by their 'daughter's' own foxes, yet was also a place holy and sacred. Their revelers rarely had reason to go there, and Yagyō-no-Mikoto was clever enough to never punish outright trespassers.

It would merely encourage attention to the place, and misdirection was key.

It was natural, then, that a place of calm, a place carefully defended, but not overtly so as to be a trap, would attract...

"I meant to invite each of my visitors to their own piece of this place. A festival beloathed is hardly a cause for celebration, and it reflects poorly upon me for those who come here to have a poor time. Yet, I could scarcely find one last one." Yagyō-no-Mikoto sits with their own monochrome gradient spilled around them, hair carefully spilled amongst them. The low table is littered with paper, fragile and wax thin, and yet still the shrine smells of camellia and iris, as if...

The paper blossoms stir in the wind, only the faintest sound of music and delight carrying from the hills below this small 'peak'. The plum tree's branches hang amidst the eaves, yet are strikingly bare. Someone kind may say they are about to bud. Someone truthful may say the boughs have long left their season to flower.

"It has been a long time since I have played hanafuda with someone who can match me." The god speaks politely, not quite warm, yet not quite chilled over either. It is a difference from their enthusiastic delight with all their other guests. A hand that is oddly... 'thin', perhaps, to the point of implying gauntness, beneath their sleeves, gestures to Seimei with a quiet hum.

It is an odd thing, from someone with those eyes. Those eyes are typically venomous or reverent, with scarce in-between. Yagyō-no-Mikoto hides half their face behind a fan, ever-present, and looks at Abe-no-Seimei with something uncannily neither.

"When one can peer inside the box, the game becomes something different altogether. Consider this my request." Or, rather, a test, isn't it? "I am curious to see the abilities of the greatest of another world. Yet, I suspect whim is hardly enough... nnn, though..."

Ah. A head tilts slightly. The bush clover, its perfect pale petals, is the only vegetation here to show any signs of thriving. It sings in the breeze, as its branches cling to each other as if they fear parting.

"...you are here for the Holy Grail, are you not? If you perform well, here, I'll hand it over at the end of the festival to your Chaldea. I will have no need of it then, and I have no desire for battling your people." Though there is the slightest of crows feet, the squinting of their eyes and faintest lilt of their tone, as if Yagyō-no-Mikoto is laughing at a joke they are too polite to speak.

"I ask not that you even win."

@upboundline

[upboundline]

@bomnotz

Laurel sits across the table from Bei, leaning back and with her arms crossed over her chest as she regards him. Hrmm. A lollipop stick (she's trying to quit smoking, okay!) gets gnawed on in a decidedly worrying manner -- the sort of feeling that comes before getting chewed out by a boss. "Alright, you."

She points a finger at Bei, trapped before her. "Do you have any fucking idea what you've done?! Do you not realize you and Seimei are-- he's basically my dad." She realizes that could come across as sounding like she sees him paternally, rather than she sees him as 'a distant bastard who keeps telling me exactly what paths I'll go down and doing nothing but staring at me with a shake of the head and an 'I knew you'd do that' if I try to choose another' who also shares facial expressions with her father exactly. It's a derogatory thing. She course-corrects. "Like, the sequel to my dad. You fucked my dad, maybe even married him, and didn't even think to tell me?!"

She throws her arms up in exasperation, then falls back to her seat. "Most besties tell each other if they're planning on fucking a guy who's basically a clone of their shitty dad." She already knew (and hates on their behalf) Bei's ridiculous attraction to Seimei, but what. Are they gonna end up being weirdly familial to her, too? Which means more like, are they going to start picking up the distant habits of people who hang around her real father.

[bomnotz]

Of course, their start is about the most important part.

"What- no, I would never marry him without your consent." For a six foot nine bulked up youkai, they are certainly portraying themselves with the slight shameful hunch of a particularly scolded ferret. As if they did not just give permission rights to their Master in what is absolutely an attempt at appeasement, no matter how twinkling their eyes and almost pouting expression is.

"You are the closest I have to family here... I could never elope. If permission must be sought, it would be from thine mouth, Master." It's true, in their mind, especially because anyone who asked one of the other Doumi for 'permission' might be skinned into a new suit. (They are the oldest, anyways! Them! They are the chronological first!!)

Seimei and Laurel are equally ranked in their brain, which either says a lot about Laurel, Seimei, or Bei. Probably more about Bei, and how attached they grow to affection aimed towards them. but they don't introspect on such a thing. Regardless. None of these are important towards the aim of 'no angry'.

"This one trusts you with their happiness, Master," eh, that sounds a bit more like somebody else's speech patterns, "as I hope you do me." Their hands take Laurel's own, smiling brightly. Ignore that they're slightly stained with new years' fortunes.

(It's somewhat cheating. It's absolutely cheating. But they are not opposed to taking matters into their own hands. Sneaking their own for those they care about into the mix is far more complicated than just conveying these wishes, foolishly retains their handwriting, which they have not considered for even a moment in their effort to make customized enchantments to force the selection of their rigged fortunes. They may have learned nothing about the last time they tried to cheat with boxes.)

"No matter my path, I want you there. I may have made that choice, but I would never leave my Master's household, nor her side. Tis the closest to tradition I may enact." Bei's expression softens, smile something smaller, a fang hanging over one edge. Their grip tightens carefully around Laurel's single hand. "Even if you serve as the sour faced guardian to scare off foul spirits from any potential union you authorized. I will happily welcome your distaste for the fact that you are there."

The 'you can be miffed at my wedding' specialty... that's true friendship.

"Also, I did tell you I wished to fuck him, but you then were grotesquely appalled. I assumed you didn't want details..." This is slanting right into teasing to distract from having an absurdly heartfelt sentiment. They clearly know this is going to be rejected. "If you wanted details in 'bestie gossip', you just had to ask, Master!~ Why, I'll trade a rendezvous for a rendezvous-"

[bomnotz]

A soft touch is normally a good thing. It's less of a good thing when one is unconscious with a mauled leg, in a space too humid to be a building yet too cool to be outdoors.

Gently, the wound is cleaned. A figure almost illuminated by gas mantle hanging behind, across the ceiling like stars. A low, almost grass-dirt smelling herb.

The person stirs. The figure lunges back, scattering something almost hollow sounding against- stone? A faint dripping from afar, a slight echo. Something hunches, staring with three half-glints in the light. Are they wearing a coat? Something fuzzes their outline.

Waking, then. A mantle is snuffed of its flame, the cores slowly falling dim. A slow approach- human padded feet, a seemingly normal gait.

In the haze of waking, perhaps all these things are noticeable, and perhaps none at all. Almost as if underwater, something shifts near her ears.

"Excuse me, miss Eleanor. Please, don't move." It almost sounds like Ramona, for a moment. A gentle voiced young woman, calm and careful words. It almost could have been someone familiar.

But a wiry cloth is pulled round her ears, as if drying them. Tracing it quietly, then, that cloth moves, smoothing over the crease between the eyes. That coarse clothed rag- no, a rag shouldn't have digits, a rag shouldn't have knuckles. For a second, a voice warbles in the sigh, the hum between words, almost perfectly someone fami-

No, that's a bad approach. That isn't what she's doing today. Reminding herself, she takes a slow breath, ᴹᵉⁿˢᶜʰᵉⁿˢᵏᶦⁿᵈ, ˢᵒᵖʰᶦᵉ, low under her breath.

"Take a deep breath, miss. I'm still treating your wounds." That could never have been a familiar voice. But it's slow and careful. Above her, three things half glint in the light, the faint silhouette of somebody there. Something twitches above them, but then stills.

"I found you in the tunnels near Tower Bridge, unconscious and floating." That coarse fur moves away, and something with skin comes to replace it. The back of a hand rests over Eleanor's forehead, and a sigh of relief comes from above her.

"Good, your fever is down... you're very lucky you were upright, miss. I was worried you wouldn't be breathing when I fished you out. Take a deep breath and wake slowly. Do you remember your name?"

@mortalistella - oh god i forgot how to word.

[bomnotz]

"Perhaps I think a lie of kindness is still a lie. Perhaps I like to deceive myself with 'could have been's." Because a chance at happiness like that wasn't real. It never could have been. Idly, he thinks of a man who suffered so many fates, across so many worlds. He must have died differently, in his true place. Two corpses in Joyous Gard's deepest heart, one that would never rot, and one of an old friend.

So Gawain allows himself to hold Lancelot's hand like something long lost.

"You did. You did a wonderful job. I could never have asked for a greater knight." How tender. A knight like Gawain knows the warmth the hilt feels when the greave wraps around it, and having been king means he knows that feeling better- the feeling of the throne, tight as a vice, around you. So he will be the one to hold Lancelot again- a familiar weapon, a familiar friend. The shield to his blade.

But if he was to be given a second chance... once again like a knight, he brings a hand up to his own lips, stubble pressed against this hand. "You were beautiful. Just as beautiful as you are now. I am glad to share to you the story of the most brilliant loyalty. Do you wish to start at the beginning, or the end, my Lancelot?"

@upboundline

[upboundline]

"a lie i don't begrudge you." that's as close to offering forgiveness as he feels he's allowed to extend without rejecting gawain's feelings of guilt outright. to do that risks ignoring him, the same slight artoria committed against himself. if it's a lie gawain tells then, well. a lie offered in kindness is a story, and stories are no sin.

but he's not one to absolve. 'my hand was yours once'-- now, who said that? his hand is gawain's for this time, here. at being called a wonderful knight-- at more importantly, one who did his job-- lancelot brightens immensely. a brief wide smile, a flash of a much younger person who had not yet even encountered going behind another's back or failing his kind, the long-stretching shadow of lancelot's sins removed for a second from his face. just a second.

it's his essence, he cannot leave that shadow or failure behind for long, but gawain gets a brief glimpse of a whole lancelot, not the servant split between berserker of self-perception and saber of others' conception. even if that glimpse still has all the wisps of fog and sharp teeth of a fairy. "thank you."

sincere, and for more than just the affirmation that lancelot was once and could be again a knight. thank you, for the story told that allowed a dog to act out a dream. the second compliment, however, embarrasses lancelot and he looks down from gawain, a soft laugh that again makes him a little self-conscious in how metallic it sounds. (humanity was a fleeting dream, he knows this, but the reminder of such is soon enough to throw him a bit off balance.)

it's different to receive a compliment of beauty from gawain than it is others. it feels a little bit like... ah, he hasn't felt someone make him self-conscious as galehaut did in quite a while. he had forgotten what it was like until the comparison hits him suddenly. "aaaaah. mrrr. i want to know your adventures, too. you're the king, after all..." he knows his own lot! he kills and generally makes something of a fool of himself, but at least he's dedicated. too much of that will get embarrassing. at least gawain has a nice voice-- this gawain in particular, too, whose tones are lightly tinged with oak and age.

[bomnotz]

The Green King, the Knight of the Sun, the Graveyard Comber, looked once to the side, as if searching for something that would permit him. Then, he began to speak.

Once, there was a king whose death would make a new world. He was the bearer, and in this, despite everything he had faced, he felt something inside of him. So he petitioned one last work from a mage who had lost everything.

The king wondered if they would ever see each other again, and knew immediately they would not.

So he took this work and laid it on the ground, petitioned his knights and the fair people to gently paint the signs upon the bricks of this place of joy. At the center, there were three places to catch and call a star from the heavens.

At its lowest was a place of solemn repose, so he did not call from there. His throne was above this place, so he first walked there and spoke the words.

From his throne he summoned first another mother-father, a doctor, who saw in empathy that this was not what the king wanted to be. A kingdom of the dying who could not see the stars beyond the canopies in anything but the water and the leaves, whose bodies felt tired and changed. The king and the doctor looked to the stars together, as the children of a brother he lost slept in the king’s cloak and dreamed of simple things.

It was from that place the king looked to the sky. Silently, selfishly, he looked to all those who would help him ensure his will. He looked to those who relied upon him for their futures. He looked to those who were fearful, who were tired, who had all rested upon this soil after seeing the destruction of all they had ever known.

He looked to those who had been lost.

For a moment, there is no need for stories- or rather, he remembers a time when they were shared without hesitation, at late nights around a fire and the way that table for a time felt the same as their circled tents. For a moment, Gawain looks at Lancelot, and he wonders, again and again and again and again. A softer look is there, a yearning that had not been fulfilled, one that was tempered by merely holding him close for those times.

Only when the cold had taken him, rather than fire, did he stop that bad habit.  “I think… the most awe inspiring moment, was seeing that great beast you summoned. You’ve had such adventures.” Never living down the jet, buddy. “Even the doctor did not recognize that thing, and he had channeled electricity to degrees I can only imagine… I should have had you tell a story of the bow adorned beast, the seventy forty seventh of its kind. Do you think it was as fierce as Cath Palug?”

[brilliantpride]

@bomnotz / kama and yako (as usual)

"I might be dumb but I'm not stupid. You're wearing my face. Like, your hair is twinkly like usual and you've got the space arms, but that's... my face." She'd be flattered if she weren't so confused. "What, you didn't like the one you had before?" Or are you just that down bad for me? Yako thinks, but doesn't add.

[bomnotz]

Kama has loved before. That was never in question. Kama will love again. This, too, is something they can only dwell on as ‘regrettable’ in the same way that one would describe a bug, swatted against a fancy curtain and having to be cleaned up later lest it stain.

Maybe it’s because they have nothing better to do. In another summoning, they will wear the face of a young boy, whose red sword and bright smile shone even at the precipice of the end, and who finally became the ‘hero’ he wanted to be. He too, burnt as any shape their love takes, ruined and soiled by Manasija mimicking a boy who couldn’t be saved. In that form, perhaps the stars will coil like thorns, and the rifts in their body will run across his hands and arms, and that purple hair may shine with the galaxy like the blue of his father.

They will wear this face someday, too. But they will never wear this face here. Not in front of this one.

“This girl… the way she imagined herself in the future resembled Rati. Even when she was fearful. It made me think of what a daughter could have looked like.” It’s… honest. Eerily so. Yako’s face briefly twists back at her, this body less endowed, but the stars burn red with something further back- older in time, but a spirit that was from back then, younger and perhaps capable of something Kama is incapable of now. But Kama can’t bring themself to really frown that much. Eyes that are more their own float over Yako, looking over her.

"...I don't look like I used to. There's nothing left of that body. There's no resemblance to be found anywhere." A hand traces her cheek, gentle. The stars are almost fuzzy so close, little red dots like freckles or beauty marks. It’s more a reflection of Kama, then, that this body is a soft thing despite reflecting back a warrior, claws which are tender to not scratch at what is loved.

“You’ll die someday. I’ll keep the better parts of you.” For a moment, it’s a soft statement, before they roll their eyes and flick at their master’s nose, pulling themself back to a better (read: more irritable) mood. “But not your voice. It’s annoying. Who said you could start backtalking, huh? Maybe I should start implying you're dumb.”

[bomnotz]

"Perhaps I think a lie of kindness is still a lie. Perhaps I like to deceive myself with 'could have been's." Because a chance at happiness like that wasn't real. It never could have been. Idly, he thinks of a man who suffered so many fates, across so many worlds. He must have died differently, in his true place. Two corpses in Joyous Gard's deepest heart, one that would never rot, and one of an old friend.

So Gawain allows himself to hold Lancelot's hand like something long lost.

"You did. You did a wonderful job. I could never have asked for a greater knight." How tender. A knight like Gawain knows the warmth the hilt feels when the greave wraps around it, and having been king means he knows that feeling better- the feeling of the throne, tight as a vice, around you. So he will be the one to hold Lancelot again- a familiar weapon, a familiar friend. The shield to his blade.

But if he was to be given a second chance... once again like a knight, he brings a hand up to his own lips, stubble pressed against this hand. "You were beautiful. Just as beautiful as you are now. I am glad to share to you the story of the most brilliant loyalty. Do you wish to start at the beginning, or the end, my Lancelot?"

@upboundline