a graceless decay

[apotrcpaics]

Dora, as a persona, rarely leaves the four walls of her store. She was born from the need to separate Valdís from the owner to one of the closest things Aurea has to Pandora’s Box, and thus had once been destined to live her life trapped with her curiosities just as she had been born. That had been before their operations began to expand as drastically as they did, before tomes began crossing her counter that she would have thought would be more heavily safeguarded. Now, Dora must take the occasional errant outside of her shop with a cheerful skip to her step that is entirely uncharacteristic for Valdís herself to use, leaving a handful of trusted attendants manning the shop.

That the most recent errant takes her all the way to a Magister House is a novelty, even more when it is one of the most mysterious of the bunch. Yet she had been asked to acquire and decorate the art from one specific page from one tome to a rare scroll for one of her most constant and wealthy clients, all so that he could give it to the woman he is courting as a sentimental gift or something. And well, he has brought them a good amount of business over the past few years.

“Two clusters of myrtles on the sides, with two hands clasped over an apple,” she repeats clearly, lips twisted in amusement at the request itself. Apparently her client’s lover had doodled such a thing on his arm a few moons ago and he had wanted it immortalized in a copy of her favorite poem. Toothachingly sweet, if one were to ask Valdís but Dora? Dora found the whole thing delightful. 

“The apple resting above the middle line of the poem in the scroll,” she adds cheerfully with a grin to match her tone. “A client of mine wanted a romantic and meaningful gift to give to his betrothed, and this was his idea. Isn’t he sweet?”

[breweri]

is  it  ?  she  supposes  she  wouldn't  mind  it  if  leonidas  graced  her  with  a  similar  gift  —  though  he  surely  knew  better  than  to  deliver  something  so  sentimental.  she'd  had  little  head  for  poetic  language  and  romanticism  anyway.  any  replica  of  the  piece  before  her  would  get  put  on  a  shelf  somewhere  to  rot.  or  until  maru  knocked  it  to  the  floor  as  he  was  wont  to  do  with  things  both  fragile  and  undesirable,  whichever  came  first.  but  perhaps  it  would  be  unusual  for  her  to  respond  in  such  a  way.  as  her  superiors  would  have  it,  nayuta  was  meant  to  be  a  gleaming,  beaming  trophy,  spared  the  tragic  fate  of  a  star-crossed  love  with  a  deserving  man  who  happened  to  have  the  wrong  parents.  it  was  easier  to  look  the  part  when  all  she  had  to  do  was  send  a  meaningful  look.  truth  over  fiction,  when  she  had  no  mask  to  hide  behind.  ❝  …  quite  sweet,  yes.  ❞

there  was  something  perplexing,  although  she  had  asked,  about  having  a  client  so  sure  of  their  wants.  it  saved  time,  certainly  —  she's  already  halfway  through  a  bough  —  and  not  having  to  wade  through  the  hemming  and  hawing  or  lead  people  through  it  is  as  much  a  boon  as  she  can  hope  for.  and  yet,  there's  still  a  twinge  in  the  base  of  her  skull.  call  it  her  creative  spirit,  or  perhaps  a  desire  for  control.  it's  something  to  do  with  being  told  what  to  do,  nayuta  hypothesizes.  she  is  no  lapdog.  it's  different  with  her  house,  for  they  have  already  shown  her  what  disobedience  begets.  but  from  the  lips  of  a  stranger…  her  own  thin. 

❝  do  you  customarily  act  as  a  midpoint  for  such  requests  ?  i  had  assumed  your  collection  of  baubles  came  and  went…  as  they  were.  ❞  the  conclusion  sounds  lame  to  her  own  ears,  leaving  her  flat-footed.  with  little  cause  to  visit  a  pawn  shop  on  her  own,  leashed  as  her  wealth  was,  and  procuring  oddities  directly  from  the  source,  she  could  only  assume.  but  if  she  had  nothing  cogent  to  say,  perhaps  she  should  not  have  spoken  at  all.  she  remains  focused  on  the  work,  the  familiarity  of  it  seeping  back  into  the  tone  of  her  voice.  ❝  one  would  imagine  the  sweeter  fiancé  would  come  himself  to  ensure  a  job  properly  done.  but  who  am  i  to  know  his  schedule  ?  one  might  believe  that  the  thought  alone  counts.  ❞

[decthless]

Fondness is cruelty to those who were taught to cower from warmth, and the endearment lands with all the jagged violence of a blade slipped between the ribs; he cannot taste anything but his own nausea, rolling in waves, climbing up his throat.

Little Kwon. Little Kwon? What right had he to make him sound soft and small and helpless on his tongue? Was it pity that compelled him, or the urge to mock? Baeksa rejects both as if scorched; he wants to throw up, forgets to breathe, holding so still, he thinks for a moment he might be just another piece of furniture, with bones jutting, and skin stretched taut over them, as though it wants to tear at the seams of this detestable body. And even the soft, rhythmic hiss of serpents weaving through shadow is of no comfort to his jealous heart, their narrow heads lifting in quiet uncertainty, sensing the subtle fracture beneath their master's facade. Golden eyes remain fixed upon Kastor, fury barely contained, stripped of their earlier amusement as he claws at his own arm, tearing at skin tissues unkindly—cruel, even towards himself, when he cannot tear at anything else; blood gathers, warm between his fingers, dripping to the floor.

"Shut up..." he spews, voice shaking, but barely louder than a murmur. His throat feels tight; the buzzing in his ears grows louder. "...Shut up!" yell louder, claw harder, tear yourself to ribbons, sweet coos of dissonant madness lick at the back of his skull, in his own voice. He thinks he is better than you. No. No, that isn't what he said. Then why does it sound like it? Stop it, stop it! "Do not presume to know me." the growl rips through him, unnervingly low, as if the young Kwon is lost in an argument with himself. One serpent ventures too close, brushing against the silk pooled around his ankles in quiet reassurance, and Baeksa startles as though burned—his foot lashes out before thought can catch it, sending the little creature skittering helplessly across polished stone. Another recoils at the sharp hiss that tears itself from somewhere deep within his throat, disappearing beneath a cabinet with frightened haste. His gaze lowers, bony fingers slipping into the silk of his hair, clutching, ripping through a bundle of hair as they vanished, something wounded flickering across his face before being buried beneath practiced composure. He smooths trembling fingers through the length of his pale hair once, twice, three times—again and again, until not a single strand dares sit out of place. "Aha..." a laugh chokes in his throat, yellow hues trembling, as if about to spill, fixed on the gleaming floor. "They're so terribly disobedient..."

With measured elegance the young lord rises, stumbles, as if disoriented, drifting like the pale ghost of a boy toward the nearest sideboard where crystal decanters gleam beneath candlelight, where ruby liquor catches the light and he fills a glass nearly to its brim, spilling it all over his hands, all over the floor. His constitution had never tolerated spirits; everyone in the estate knew as much—what of it? It will make the feeling stop. Is that not why Kastor indulges? Perhaps then, he would indulge too. Would he be more likable for it? More worthy of affection? The physicians scolded him, but he could not hear their nagging voices now. Haneul confiscated bottles whenever they found them—locked it all away, knowing well of his sibling's temperament; but his father was not as careful. Baeksa knew precisely how ill it would make him, he drinks it anyway—the burn forces tears into his eyes, body recoiling beneath expensive silk, fingers whitening around the crystal stem before he calmly pours himself another. Disgusting. Another. The glass cracks between the grip of his hand; he does not rush, something ceremonial about the way he doses his own self-harm, each swallow a quiet defiance, an assertion of territory reclaimed, ensuring the reigns of control remain within his clutches, that his pain belongs to himself, if nothing else does.

Perhaps you might surprise h—his eyes snap to him, honed and ready to strike, then fall again, wounded, defeated. Would they? Would he surprise them? Did they not know all there was to know of each other? He feels ill, the veins on his neck throbbing faintly."You'll kill me and eat me, then," he drawls out, twisting the story on his venomous tongue, the cloying sweet lilt of his voice tinged by the bitter start of inebriation, fair lashes lowering into the red surface of the drink that bleeds between his knuckles—or was that blood? His lips curve into the ghost of a smile that never reaches his eyes at the thought. "If you're as merciful as you say, you would've already killed me by now," the smile stretches a fraction wider, emptied of joy, looking at him only through the reflection of his glass, filled with envy, and resentment, and a thousand other complicated things he cannot name nor identify. Another sip; his throat tightens around it, the ache spreading. "So forgive me if I find your mercy..." a stifled laugh squeezes through the narrow well of his throat, brittle and sardonic. "...hard to believe."

[breweri]

the  man's  jaw  tightens  in  place  of  a  flinch,  the  air  sailing  through  clenched  teeth  a  sympathetic  hiss  not  unlike  those  of  the  skittering  creatures  searching  for  safe  harbor.  as  prescient  as  ever,  it  seems,  to  recognize  fury  moments  before  it  rears  its  ugly  head.  where  such  furor  would  mean  his,  should  word  of  this  get  back  to  his  employer.  as  fun  as  the  banter  can  be,  pulling  on  haneul's  pigtails  just  to  hear  the  squeak  after,  kastor  has  no  delusions  that  an  interloper  whom  few  would  miss  (  for  those  who  would  are  already  dead  and  gone  )  could  ever  be  more  than  a  sacrifice  to  the  ever-hungry  haves  of  the  world.  a  worthy  body  to  lay  upon  an  altar,  too  numbed  to  feel  yet  another  thing  being  torn  from  him,  life  or  vengeance  or  both.  fifteen  years  ago,  he  might've  gotten  a  week  of  mourning,  perhaps  some  sort  of  vigil  in  a  town  square.  now,  he's  lucky  to  get  a  plot  of  land  for  his  dirt  nap.  ❝  must  you  assume  insult  where  there  is  none,  fuckhead  ?  ❞  if  the  original  endearment  prompted  such  an  irate  response,  then  surely  this  one  would  reverse  course  just  as  quickly.

❝  i  am  among  the  first  to  believe  that  survival  is  no  mercy,  but  even  so  —  i  do  not  squander  it.  ❞  long  legs  shoot  him  across  the  room  in  an  instant,  a  hunter's  loping  stride,  clawed  and  purposeful.  the  other's  repeated  command  bounces  off  him  like  shafts  from  a  boar's  bristled  hide;  silence  is  for  solitude.  while  kastor  shares  space  with  another,  he  will  be  known.  any  other  time  might  have  brought  pity  or  understanding.  perhaps  there  is  something  in  the  air  stoking  the  aggression  instead  —  the  extension  of  kindness  spurned,  a  tender  search  for  kith  or  kin  torn  to  shreds  as  easily  as  baeksa's  skin.  one  hand  reaches  out  to  snatch  the  liquor,  the  other  to  squeeze  beneath  the  red  lines,  hoisted  in  the  air  for  better  observation.  might  be  that  he'd  need  to  daub  some  of  the  liquid  there  after  as an antiseptic,  a  better  use  than  being  spilled  across  the  table  and  floor.  ❝  hasn't  anyone  ever  taught  you  to  share  ?  ❞  a  river  flows  from  the  bottle  down  his  gullet,  the  actualization  of  a  regular  impulse  to  reach  across  a  bar top  and  take  his  fill.

but  a  good  drink  tastes  different  when  it's  not  for  the  drink's  sake  —  when  swallowing  is  deprivation,  an  act  of  banditry  and  larceny,  the  rush  loses  its  luster.  or  maybe  it's  just  kastor's  tolerance  rearing  its  stinking  head.  (  or,  maybe  the  stink  is  just  him.  )

the  hold  on  his  charge's  arm  breaks  only  after  half  the  bottle  is  gone,  when  kas  realizes  his  grip  on  both  might  be  too  tight,  and  the  other  too  easy  to  bruise.  a  bowman's  grasp,  sturdy  and  true.  it  loosens  by  fractions,  stalled  by  a  fascination  with  trying  to  connect  his  thumb  to  the  tip  of  his  middle  finger.

and  then  a  wave  of  cold  washes  over  him,  like  a  bucket of sea water  thrown  over  his  head.  all  contact  ceases  as  kastor  retreats  to  his  earlier  spot,  moving  too  far,  too  quickly.  he  bumps  up  against  a  cabinet, and its corner  jams  itself  into  the  center  of  his  back.  a  punishment  for  his  rashness  as  much  as  it  is  an  anchor  to  the  buzz.  he  breathes  out  through  his  nose,  lets  fly  a  parade  of  ❛  huh  ❜s  that  float  off  in  a  migratory  pattern,  easily  mistaken  for  a  weary  chuckle.  ❝  gods,  you  little  brat.  who'd've  thought  you  lot  were  holding  out  on  me  all  the  while  ?  a  couple  of  silvers  for  my  time  when  i  could've  been  paid  with  ❞  —  he  squints  futilely  down  at  the  label  ❝  —  whatever  the  fuck  this  is.  the  good  shit.  ❞  his  palm  finds  his  chest  again,  where  his  heart  starts  to  pump  faster  than  it  normally  would.  ❝  what  a  way  to  find  out  what  you  both  really  think  of  me.  ❞

there,  a  buoy  thrown:  stop  thinking  so  hard.  think  about  me,  think  about  why  you  must  hate  me,  turn  your  kitten's  claws  to  me  if  you  must  draw  blood.  kastor  lifts  the  bottle  above  his  head,  index  and  middle  finger  framing  the  neck  as  he  would  his  arrows,  careless  yet  proficient,  lest  the  younger  make  a  move  to  snatch  it  back.  last  he  checked,  the  little  kwon  had  not  yet  learned  how  to  fly.  drown  in  something  other  than  your  thoughts  or  rotgut.  even  enmity  is  better  than  nothing.  ❝  do  i  spy  a  mortal  wound  or  a  mortal's  whinge  ?  i  don't  kill  for  those,  so  if  you  believe  this  is  my  mercy,  you  don't  seem  to  know  me  very  well  either.  ❞  he'd  have  left  a  trail  of  bodies  around  aurea  otherwise.  the  idea  of  it  is  neither  tempting  nor  even  acceptable.  his  hands  are  red  enough;  they  must  be  soiled  in  some  other  way.

[godsxchariots]

"Have you come to dread the days of open invitation, upon which any lurid request by the public could be made?" Quietly Alexei wondered; he been a gentleman, presenting a noble request, could he have found favor in her eyes? Nayuta ruled their little meeting with perfect grace --- a certain petrifying influence surrounded her. It was doubtless she would keep even the most unruly in check, without need for passion or violence. Her consumate knowledge and skill pressed upon him as invaluable; he did not wish to inspire antipathy, but lacked whatever charms would be required to cast himself in an endearing role. "I could never fathom a member of your great House would lack skill; it is after all, one of the greatest facets that separates us." It is not bitterness that cloaks his softly delivered speech, but a quiet resignation; for if Nayuta and those of her class began to forgo their callings, mutinous thought would spread throughout the smallfolk. He could never enter such a sphere; his schooling informal, his manner unbecoming and course. But he knew something of the world, of human nature; the book before him was brought __, as to draw out his strongest character. "It is a gift, yes --- a declaration that I shall never be divorced from the vows I made, even as I drift further and further away from the very best of myself." The future spoke no promise, no comfort to him --- he was resigned to a sorrowful indulgence of the past, a despairing resignation that lined his features in a glaze of melancholy. Alexei watched their movements, his own limbs immobile; he was a stern monk, incapable of indulging in confession, but drawn to mumbling refrains of lovesickness. "Someone of your grace and high esteem can presumably never esteem of such a thing --- but have you ever lost something you treasured, owing only to your faults?" Neither a torrid confession nor a love sick monologue, did Alexei seek to illicit from the other; but on those rare days he indulged in emotion, it did a wonderful homage to his emotions, feeling an electric bind of sympathy with another through mutual understanding. "I wish to convey to another that I remember. That I shall until my dying day."

[breweri]

❝  you  flatter  me.  ❞  the  words  were  said  impassively,  lacking  in  gratitude.  she  supposed  that  there  should  be  some  measure  of  it,  in  fairness.  it  was  a  blessing  to  be  praised  for  once,  when  the  great  house  of  yukimoto  had  always  deemed  her  less  than  dirt.  a  puzzling  figure  to  stare  at,  if  not  one  unworthy  of  notice.  ‘twas  only  when  they  could  extract  value  out  of  her  hand  in  marriage  that  the  tides  had  turned,  and  then  some  more  when  her  talent  with  sums  (  for  she  was  untalented  where  it  most  mattered,  and  they  would  never  let  her  forget  it  )  and  art,  but  even  getting  tossed  into  their  infernal  machine  did  not  merit  a  dip  of  the  chin.  it  was  not  the  other’s  fault;  he  could  not  have  known  that  recognizing  her  as  a  measure  of  their  eminence  was  to  rip  open  a  scar  he  could  not  see,  a  new  cut  directly  over  the  old  and  twice  as  deep.  her  kin  were  frightening  to  behold.  some  thought  that  a  virtue.  nayuta  had  never  been  among  that  number.  if  it  would  not  have  been  a  devaluation,  she  might  have  even  taken  her  husband's  name  —  but  such  idle  fancies  were  long  past.  ❝  dread  has  little  to  do  with  anything  where  duty  is  concerned.  ❞  and  of  the  things  the  cold  ones  asked  of  her,  this  was  the  least  disagreeable.  she  was  unlike  her  betters,  who  knew  no  masters  but  themselves.  whose  whims  served  as  the  currents  of  life's  rushing  waters,  frozen  and  shattered  at  a  moment's  notice.  curiosity  ignited  by  cruelty,  catalyzed  by  hubris.  she  could  not  say  she  was  painted  from  a  different  brush.

but  fidelity,  she  had  dwelt  in  it,  and  she  understood.  it  melted  the  glacier  of  her,  the  line  of  her  shoulders  pouring  downward  as  her  head  bowed,  lowered  toward  her  desk  as  careless  fingers  flicked  sheets  of  parchment  aside  until  she  found  something  inconsequential  enough  to  be  scribbled  on.  the  contours  of  a  seraph  started  to  take  shape  across  the  yellowed  expanse,  its  veil  fluttering  in  a  poetic  breeze  to  expose  cascading  tears,  falling  as  rain  along  the  corners  of  a  downturned  mouth.  the  work  was  mostly  curves  —  the  dramatic,  convex  arch  of  the  angel's  brows,  lips  formed  in  a  soundless  cry  the  likes  of  which  might  be  more  apt  for  a  melpo,  the  roundness  of  each  droplet  along  the  planes  of  misery's  face.  she  paused  in  the  middle  of  the  hands,  pressed  together  in  fervent  prayer  for  relief  —  imploring  countless  gods  who  it  knew  would  never  rend  an  answer.  ❝  i  know  of  loss,  yes.  ❞  what  else  needed  to  be  said  ?  or,  with  furtive  glance  sent  'round  the  room,  what  else  could  ?  nayuta  finished  the  sketch  in  slower  strokes  than  she  began,  face  twisted  in  some  halfway  point  to  the  exaggerated  grimace  beneath  her.  her  works  always  drew  from  life:  cross  sections  of  flesh,  of  tissue,  of  organ,  the  nine  stages  of  decay.  was  this  her  own  corpse  turned  back  onto  herself,  face  stripped  bare  ?  perhaps.  but  it  made  things  easier,  to  pull  from  a  sentiment  so  near.  she  swallowed  around  a  lump  in  her  throat  as  she  turned  the  image  back  toward  her  petitioner.  ❝  is  this  to  your  liking  ?  i  may  yet  make  some  changes,  if  not.  elsewise  i  will  commit  this  to  ink  as  you've  requested.  any  preference  for  colors  ?  ❞  the  verbosity  would  cover  a  bird's  warble,  surely.

[breweri]

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.  the  steps  of  the  temple  of  sunfyre,  lounging  about  like  an  uninvited  guardian  animal. 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧.  @aubadement's  lorcan  falk,  a  fellow  sharpshooting  supplicant.

❝  someone's  gone  and  pissed  in  the  lady's  oats  this  morning, so she's decided to take it out on mere mortals,  i  believe.  ❞  kastor  speaks  without  looking  up,  too  focused  on  playing  tug  of  war  with  bottle.  the  mangy  mutt's  front  paws  are  off  the  floor  as  he  raises  his  hand  above  his  head,  still  gripping  the  hard  salt  beef  tight.  dumb  dog  probably  thinks  this  is  a  game  —  though  it  makes  kas  all  the  fonder  toward  him  for  it.  ❝  i  can  scarcely  fathom  another  reason  why  those  ghastly  priests  would  set  out  the  lentil  soup  this  afternoon  instead  of  the  mutton  one  we  both  like.  clearly  an  intentional  slight,  wouldn't  you  say  ?  ❞  he  casts  a  derisive  look  over  his  shoulder,  though  there's  still  a  mostly  empty  bowl  sitting  to  his  side.  if  his  struggle  with  the  dog  persisted,  upending  it  wouldn't  be  much  of  an  issue.  there  wouldn't  have  been  much  to  sop  up,  at  the  very  least. 

offering  the  a  sidelong  glance,  he  lifts  a  shoulder.  ❝  but  feel  free  to  help  yourself  to  it,  i  suppose.  just  a  friendly  warning;  far  be  it  from  me  to  stop  you.  ❞  or  anyone,  really.  these  days,  he  was  about  as  commanding  as  a  piece  of  furniture  —  and  not  the  kind  people  stubbed  their  toes  on.  the  sort  that  people  could  hoist  over  their  heads  in  frustration,  more  like,  though  that  was  only  because  he  allowed  it.  kastor  had  his  doubts  such  a  situation  would  repeat  itself  in  present  company,  as  welcome  a  reprieve  as  he  was  going  to  find  anywhere.  ❝  but  if  you'd  be  so  kind,  could  you  grab  a  couple  of  extra  rolls  ?  i  think  i  can  steal  the  jerky  if  i  distract  bottle  with  it.  i'll  do  whatever  you  need  doing,  in  exchange.  ❞  a  sly  wink  ensues,  as  though  that  may  smooth  his  path.

[sidereius]

Fluffy white paws knead his stomach with claws sheathed, as if baker’s bread on the morning of a new day. Leonidas feels just as warmed in his home’s hearth as he imagines the dough must feel in the oven, despite the cold wind that runs through the pillars, despite the windows kept closed. It seemed as if tale, that he had come closer to being toast. Or such had the medicus spoken, when their hands had poked and prodded at his tender skin, and slathered foul-smelling ointment before wrapping him tighter than one’s plate’s cinch. Already one eye had swollen shut, and underneath the bandages were bruises darkening from carmine into a shade more becoming of wine than man. And yet Leonidas knew his body, like a merchant taking inventory of that with which he plied his trade. Ivory doll, posed and held to the light, notches and flaws sanded smooth each time. True aches seldom came—but when they did, they were aching and bloody. It smarted, less the pain and more his pride, that they thought he would not know true wound from that which only marred the flesh. But he took it. There were worse things than to be sprawled as if a painting, half-naked and tempting, on his bed.

He scratches at Maru’s back and lingers in the purring that follows, lounging as if it would take a hundred men to move him. The silver eye yet unharmed gleams when she steps in. “I never slept.” He had made them make scarce at the door, like a proper lion growling at whoever thought to step into its cave. They were eager to have him off their hands—those that touched him usually were. The hand not petting Maru—who Leonidas refuses to speak of as it—instead plays with a strip of embroidered crimson silk. Stolen. And yet the fingers around which it is wound flex and close, tight and stubborn. “You left this in my bed.” He lies. “Have you much on your mind? I arrive wounded, and the house empty and your side of the room a mess. Tut-tut. Know that if you must use me as your maid, I boast of having a fee that makes the golden pirates of llyr weep.” Lips spread to form a sardonic smile, only for him to hiss as they split. Her touch comes closer, then, and as always he must follow—with his eyes, as if a child looking at the stars. As she pulls away, he turns his head—nothing but a brush of her knuckles against his forehead, softer than flower petals and lasting much less. It would be enough. For many moons it would be enough. “For you, it shall be free.” Another attempt at a lazy smirk, even as some blood drips. “The apron and shorter robes will still cost you a smile, steep, I know. But I promise the sight will still be sweet.” He stretches with a groan and sigh. “I’ve been told I have comely calves.”

[breweri]

she  allows  herself  a  scoff,  lest  she  worry  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth  instead.  ❝  between  you  and  i,  dear  husband,  we  both  know  which  one  would make  —  and  has made  —   the  better  maid.  ❞  she  has  never  granted  herself  much  space  to  think  of  simpler  times.  of  their  first  meeting,  her  hands  wrapped  around  the  handle  of  a  mop  twice  her  size,  the  bucket  of  soapy  water  framed  between  her  feet.  as  she  gazes  at  the  expanse  of  him,  muscle  and  sinew  and  warm  flesh  she  aches  to  reach  out  and  touch,  it  is  hard  to  think  of  the  solitary  little  boy  on  a  bench. 

but  then  nayuta's  eyes  fall  upon  the  bruises  and  their  dressings  and  the  resemblance  is  clear.  goods  damaged  in  transit,  the  splintered  corner  of  a  crate.  the  hurt  has  sprouted  from  the  garden  of  his  self  to  flourish  across  his  skin,  yet  only  by  lifting  the  lid  can  one  tell  whether  the  cargo  still  has  some  worth.  and  even  still,  some  things  will  always  be  priceless.

she  gently  takes  the  tip  of  her  middle  finger  between  her  teeth  to  tug  her  glove  away,  the  other  held  fast  between  her  elbow  and  her  side  and  peeled  off  in  a  single,  swift  motion.  meager  magic  migrates  through  her  palm  and  down  her  digits  as  her  knuckles  stroke  his  purple  cheek,  thumb  skimming  the  bridge  of  his  nose  in  search  of  breakage  accompanying  the  black  eye.  the  other  hand  roams  the  expanse  of  leonidas's  shoulder,  a  sheet  of  cold  atop  the  bound  salve.  it  is  impossible  that  her  treatment  would  be  any  better  than  what  he'd  already  received  from  a  professional;  the  greatest  of  her  house  were  practitioners,  and  yet  nayuta  could  not  even  call  herself  a  theorist.  but  some  small  part  of  her  stands  defiant,  adamant  that  because  it  is  her  touch,  he  wants  it  all  the  more.  wishful  thinking  croons  the  sweetest  songs.

❝  tripped  and  fell,  did  you  ?  ❞  as  well-informed  as  she  had  been  of  the  source  of  his  injuries,  low-hanging  fruit  swings  invitingly  in  her  periphery.  ❝  how  humiliating.  a  pity  such  comely  calves  are  wasted  on  clumsy  feet.  ❞  glibness  does  not  come  easy  to  her.  it  never  has.  nayuta's  solemnity  had  only  ever  drawn  derision  throughout  her  life,  though  few  (  among  those  who  knew  the  truth,  who  may  as  well  be  no  one  at  all  )  could  fault  her  for  lacking  in  reasons  to  smile.  yet  there  must  be  something  about  him  —  a  twisted  mockery  of  the  astral  aura  for  which  he  is  so  famed  —  that pulls  it  from  her.  as  inescapable  as  the  gravity  of  a  black  hole,  a  collapsed  star  unspooling  timeless  stability  into  the  thread  of  eternity.  a  red  string  of  fate,  not unlike  the  strip  of  cloth  she  recognizes  in  an  instant,  and  whose  distortion  she  will  allow.  a  small  sacrifice  for  a  greater  aim,  for  she  has  never  valued  truth  above  purpose.  ice-cold  fingers  reach  down  to  pinch  the  muscles  in  question,  a  more  daring  playfulness  she  seldom  skirts.

laugh.  i  want  to  hear  it.  ❝  an  even  greater  pity  that  your  generosity  has  limits.  for  rich  or  for  poor,  so  the  vow  goes.  you  would  break  your  oath  to  me  ?  ❞  let  him  promise  again.  she  will  never  tire  of  hearing  that  either.

[riguangs]

while haneul's usually an image of composure and calm, there are a few cracks in his mask here in this rowdy and unseemly place. where the bottom of their shoes stick to the floor, where there are traces of dirt and chaos bleeding into the fabric of this very room. it takes a less trained eye this time to notice their discomfort, and the only silver lining is that most men in this room, at this particular time of the night, are too inebriated to take notice of the microexpressions upon the magistrate's face. it only gives them the upper hand, as they try and fail to make themselves comfortable, ignoring the jug that's set in front of them, not breaking their sharp focus in inspecting the lines of kastor's face. as uncomfortable as they are here, it seems their companion is the complete opposite. he is away from propriety here as anywhere else, but the difference is that there is no need for it here. he seems to be part of this scenery as much as haneul sticks out from it, and they cannot help but be intrigued. how can one be so at home here, of all places? where you do not know what to expect, whether it's a sudden roar of cheering, or a bottle headed your way for saying the right thing one second too late? gared, the drunkard in question, does not stir all that much, as the other recounts his story, one of little truth and much exaggeration. the wink that follows it is what pulls another brief reaction, a few blinks in succession, before haneul leans forward as well. if they are less proper, more prodding than usual, they are sure no one will be able to tell it apart in this hellhole. "do you ever tell the truth then, kastor hywel?" their elbows rest on the table, and the thought that they'll need to burn their robes goes as quickly as it comes. a tilt of their head, dark eyes, with purple swimming in them, meet the blue, taking notice of how bloodshot they are. an aftereffect of alcohol or something else, they cannot figure out. "and would we even be able to tell it apart here? a truth from a lie, or a fact from fiction." this does not seem to be a place for the truth, and one can argue there is no place where a truth cannot be turned into a dagger. even in the halls of aurea, where magisters converge, no one readily shares the truth. with the enigma that haneul finds themself facing, they cannot help but yearn for more of the truth itself. a forbidden, guilt-ridden desire, one that does not fit into their rationality or measured plans. they are relieved by the fact that it seems everything will stay here, stuck in time, in this tavern where no one will remember a thing tomorrow, no one but them. they lean back to watch the answer unfold, if it unfolds at all. an small tilt of their head forward, they continue to dig at a wound in the dark, unsure if it is one to begin with. "is that so? perhaps there is more to unravel when you're less coherent." it would be worth a shot, at least to them. though they know that once that line is passed in inebriation, it will take hours before it can return to normal. they do not want to be seen carrying a drunkard through the streets of aurea. "but very well. i wanted to inquire a thing or two." a vagueness that's only in words. they know exactly what they want to ask, at least those questions why they came here for. "have you spotted anything unusual on your latest task?"

[breweri]

kastor  laughs  a  little  louder  than  he  should  if  he  wants  to  be  kind.  which  he  does,  because  he  supposes  that  is  the  least  he  owes  them  for  meeting  him  where  he's  at.  such  a  debasement,  drawls  his  uninvited  inner  cynic,  such  a  sacrifice.  kastor  knows  all  about  that,  knows  what  he  had  to  give  up  to  find  this  hovel-turned-home  —  quant  nights  laying  beneath  the  stars,  the  glow  of  a  campfire  shuttering  privacy  away  as  dark  shadows  wriggled  about  on  the  canvas  of  a  tent.  a  warm  anchor  at  his  side,  delicate  fingers  splayed  over  his  heart  every  long  rest  as  they  shared  breath  and  kisses  and  made  a  life  that  petered  out before it ever  began.  and  in  exchange,  he  has  a  solid  roof  (  several  solid  roofs,  a  new  one  each  night,  even  )  over  his  head  and  ale  in  his  belly,  which  gives  it  an  excuse  to  twist  come  morning  as  he  upchucks  everything  he  downed  the  night  before.  kas  could  argue  that  he'd  been  robbed  of  those  things,  as  he  was  the  choice  to  surrender  them.  but  the  years  have  passed  and  the  dust  has  settled  and  the  loneliness  has  yet  to  ebb.  to  say  nothing  of  the  guilt,  which  has  hardened  into  a  diamond  at  the  center  of  his  chest. 

briefly,  he  wonders  if  the  other  even  has  one  to  speak  of.  perhaps  it  has  been  torn  out  of  their  mortal  form  too,  and  taken  on  new  shape  in  the  pale  brat  they  call  a  brother.  or,  perhaps  more  likely,  neither  kwon  sibling  has  ever  possessed  such  a  thing.  the  people  surrounding  them  may  flock  to  the  idea,  no  strangers  to  grumbling  about  being  crushed  underfoot  by  proverbial  and  literal  boots,  much  like  the  ones  adorning  the  magistrate's  feet  at  this  very  moment.  almost  a  beacon,  even  in  the  dim  light.  there  is  no  danger  of  a  brawl  yet,  but  one  can  never  be  too  certain  when  spirits  both  liquid  and  disgruntled  are  involved. 

kastor  is  half-listening  for  a  slurred  ❛  hey,  you  !  ❜  when  the  other's  query  draws  his  attention.  ❝  when  it  suits  me.  which  isn't  as  often  as  i  would  like.  but  i've  always  been  honest  with  you.  ❞  maybe  a  little  too  much.  deference  is  survival,  yes,  and  yet  he  has  never  deigned  to  show  it  for  all  his  consummate  (  ha  !  )  professionalism.  there  is  a  darker  question  at  the  end  of  that  tunnel  which  he  also  does  not  feel  needs  an  answer.  kas  would  rather  steer  toward  lighter  inferences  —  like  the  implication  of  a  vow  of  loyalty  somewhere  in  his  words.  not  to  the  death,  as  kastor  has  ever  been  to  his  ideals,  but  something  close  enough.  the  kind  of  loyalty  one  owes  to  someone  they  want  to  see  grow,  for  dishonesty's  callous  cousin  indifference  forges  a  blade  well-suited  to  the  spaces  between  ribs,  and  it  flourishes  in  places  like  these.

❝  i  think  you'll  find  the  answer  to  your other question  doesn't  really  matter  in  here.  or  out  there,  for  that  matter.  ❞  he  raises  his  eyebrows  in  beseeching  silence  with  a  quick  gesture  to  the  bowl  of  nuts  near  the  magistrate,  then  reaches  over  for  a  handful  without  receiving  an  answer.  his  ensuing  words  are  impeded  by  crunching  and  the  smacking  of  lips,  and  those  who  didn't  know  better  might  have  assumed  it  an  ill-advised  attempt  to  annoy.  as  if  doing  so  was  such  a  difficult  task  to  begin  with.  ❝  haven't  you  ever  sought  comfort  in  breaking  free  from  the  shackles  of  insignificance,  feigned  or  otherwise  ?  in  being,  for  the  briefest  of  moments,  in  the  loneliest  of  hours,  someone  whose  name  is  worth  remembering  ?  ❞

hypocrisy  at  its  finest.  when  his  own  name  had  been  truly  lauded,  kastor  hywel  found  it  easy  to  revel  in,  tempered  as  the  effusive  praise  was  by  the  mockery  of  his  closest  companions.  now  it  is  a  bogeyman  lurking  around  corners,  and  he  must  steel  himself  for  its  every  resurgence.  even  now,  he  has  not  brooked  the  question  as  to  whether  haneul  knows  the  truth  of  him.  what  had  drawn  them  to  him  ?  his  brawn,  or  his  brand  ?  not  that  he  resembled  it  much  anymore,  more  dingy  than  divine. 

but  lest  he  dwell  on  it  overlong,  the  heart  of  the  matter  finally  beats  with  purpose.  the  joviality  of  his  broad  shoulders  melts  into  a  secretive  curl  as  he  speaks  into  the  rim  of  his  cup,  head  inclined  toward  the  other.  ❝  define  unusual  for  me,  ❞  he  grunts.  ❝  a  wisp  of  hollowness  to  the  unwarranted  venom  your  brother  spat  at  me  ?  or  spooky  masked  men  looming  in  dark  alleyways  ?  because  there's  been  a  spot  of  both,  but  to  be  honest,  one  concerns  me  more  than  the  other.  ❞

[decthless]

Your elder sibling. It stirs something in him, to have his cherished elder sibling so carelessly dragged through the filth of Kastor's tongue—his title, sacred on the young kwon's tongue, spoken only softly, reverently, sounds tainted coming from such a careless mouth. Baeksa's head turned slowly, stiffly, and humor, playfulness, and every last trace of boyish naïveté is wiped from features too gentle to hold such cold expression. His nail break skin, sinking into the soft, meaty palm of his hand with all the strained tolerance of a wild animal goaded and prodded, blood welling beneath the crescent of it.

The young Kwon sighs, a languid, drawled out breath to make his displeasure known, theatrical in his orchestrations. He brings the injured hand to the fair silk of his hair, long, bony fingers passing through it languidly, coming through it unhurriedly, smoothing any trace of unruliness. "Please do not speak of my sibling with your filthy, unworthy tongue... it upsets me." it sounds exasperated and passive, the lulling timbre of his voice betraying little of how deeply the offense truly burrows. The gilded veins climbing halfway up his throat pulsate, and the young Kwon scratches it with his claws without much thought, always itchy when he is vexed—the skin abrading too easily.

His fair, gauzy lashes descend upon the rosy apples of his cheeks with another languid breath, as the young Kwon tries to visibly calm himself, pushing his anger into a vast and lightless place where all things go to be slowly digested inside his belly, and Baeksa rotates his neck, stretching the muscle there, those yellow eyes cracking open, sluggishly low, watching the performance still, with his head tilted upon one shoulder, following the hand to Kastor's chest—the widening eyes, the affected gratitude—was that his magic trick? Hiding behind laughter?

The temperature seems to drop, and very air grows thick with residual hostility. He sits down, folding elegantly, letting the shadows cloak his shoulders while somewhere within, a soft hissing comes, bodies slithering against stone—one serpent, then another; weaving over each other like dark roots growing beneath soil to culminate at his feet.

"You do that often," the young Kwon sing-songs. His voice is sweeter now, cloying and low but sharp all the same; eyes glittering with lurid satisfaction. He is unhappy, and Kas ought to know he is never unhappy alone. "Make yourself small before someone else is given the opportunity…" he picks at his nails, wondering what it would feel like to peel flesh from bone; his plush lips twitch, cold apathy clinging to its soft edges. "Or is it that you just enjoy degradation?" His hands met in a single, delighted clap, a giddy laugh bubbling forth. "It's funny!" Funny, he cheers, the way a wounded animal chewing through its own leg to escape a trap was funny. "Tell me... when you laugh too, do you stop being a joke?" he crosses his legs with poise, leaning back into his seat, sheer silk pooling in the gap between his milky thighs like liquid moonlight, opalescent scales climbing up his hips glimmer faintly as the fabric parts, pale lavender bleeding into pearl-blue beneath the light.

He smudges the red on his palm, rubbing it between his finger as if absent, lost in thought. "My Haneul is blessed with a patience well beyond his years..." a rare, quiet drop of fondness sparks in his serpentine tongue at the thought of his sibling, whose memory he kept tucked away like a treasure buried beneath his ribs. "It is my fault, I fear, that he suffers from this terrible affliction of believing wounded animals can be helped…" The gauzy veil of his lashes lifts, mouth stretching into the pale mimicry of a smile, too wide at its corners; something observed, learned, and replicated. "I don't." He punctuates the sentiment with a flat, unceremonious delivery. "When I find some lamentable little thing writhing in agony, I am filled with the urge to bash a rock against their skull and put an end to such needless misery—killing an animal in such irremediable pain is only mercy, after all, wouldn't you agree?"

Mercy, he calls it, as though it does not delight him to do so; his soft-lit face is vacant, painted in likeness of an angel, golden eyes fixed upon Kastor. Sometimes, he imagined reaching into another person and plunging his hand between their ribs, feeling all those tender muscles and tangled insides between his fingers and ripping them out to understand what made them scream. Would that satisfy? He fears, not for long.

[breweri]

ah,  the  eggshell  has  cracked.  it  had  not  been  kastor's  intention.  for  all  his  clumsiness  and  fat-fingered  carelessness,  he  does  not  set  out  into  the  world  to  cause  harm.  he  is  the  only  intended  victim  of  his  malice,  and  even  then,  it  is  cloaked  under  a  shroud  of  indulgence.  and  moreover,  his  duties  where  the  younger  kwon  are  concerned  center  entirely  around  preservation  —  mostly  of  the  body,  though  it  would  not  be  much  of  a  stretch  to  imagine  the  mind  included  as  well.  if  haneul  had  wanted  their  younger  brother  disciplined,  he  did  not  think  they  would  hesitate  to  say  so.  but  kas  did  think  that  he  would  be  the  last  person  they'd  turn  to,  if  that  was  the  case. 

the  other's  clipped  tones  bring  nary  a  blink  to  kastor's  face.  he's  heard  it  all  before,  those  silvery  barbs  meant  to  hook  and  catch,  to  tear  worse  coming  out  for  all  the  harm  they'd  already  done  going  in.  an  admirable  effort,  if  weeping  with  adolescence.  on  someone  less  self-flagellatory  and  more  self-important,  it  may  even  have  been  good  practice.  as  it  is,  his  charge's  words  bounce  off  of  him  like  droplets  of  rain  on  plate,  making  tiny  little  dinks  that  sound  melodic  to  a  romantic  ear.  kas  will  always  be  unmatched  in  the  contest  of  loathing  him  the  worst.  it  just  so  happens  that  the  list  of  participants  grows  ever  longer  with  each  passing  day.  and  in  this  instance,  there  is  pedigree  in  the  petulance.  it  is  the  biting  perfume  of  cardamom,  the  buttery  aroma  of  iris,  the  mortal  sensuousness  of  ambergris,  so  far  beyond  the  reach  of  common  wretches  such  as  he,  whose  noses  grew  blind  to  the  stench  of  fertilizer  and  rot  and  who  dreaded  rain  for  the  fetor  it  would  spring.  he  had  allowed  himself  to  grow  unfamiliar  with  parsing  through  such  highborn  acrimony  (  because,  of  course,  only  the  most  useless  things  were  easiest  to  forget  )  and  yet  he  feels  the  need  to  dredge  it  up  somehow.

❝  forgive  me,  m'lord.  i  spoke  out  of  turn.  ❞  such  an  abrupt  about-face  can  only  appear  insincere,  barely  salvaged  in  a  lowered  gaze  and  hands  folded  benignly  at  his  front.  he  takes  the  opportunity  in  the  angle  of  his  head  to  give  himself  a  quick,  discreet  sniff,  and  is  met  with  a  sourness  that  makes  his  own  nose  wrinkle.  generously,  he  moves  a  step  away,  though  he  remains  close  enough  to  intervene  in  unlikely  circumstances.  ❝  in  your  unestimable  wisdom,  you  must  know  there  is  only  so  much  i  can  truly  enjoy.  creature  comforts  best  suited  to  men  such  as  i,  who  can  only  laugh  when  we've  little  else  with  which  to  fill  our  mouths.  ❞  he  allows  himself  a  wry  tilt,  because  he  can  only  manage  a  handful  of  virtues,  and  temperance  has  never  been  one  of  them.  ❝  i  confess,  i  do  not  mind  being  much  of  a  joke.  when  you've  worn  as  many  hats  as  i  have,  you  may  find  that  it  is  a  comfortable  enough  one.  keeps  the  ears  warm.  though,  i  suppose  one's  already  been  tailored  for  you.  better  than  having  to  scrounge  off  the  floor  like  the  rest  of  us.  ❞

let  him  get  it  out  of  his  system,  for  kwon  baeksa  would  be  hard  pressed  to  find  a  better  target  than  kastor  hywel.  he  can  count  on  one  hand  the  number  of  times  retaliation  has  ever  crossed  his  mind.  ❝  i  don't  believe  i've  ever  mentioned  it  before,  but  i  come  from  a  hunting  village,  little  kwon.  ❞  the  endearment  had,  until  then,  only  lived  in  his  head.  it  may  have  been  a  mistake  to  bring  it  to  light,  though  it  is  too  late  to  snatch  it  back  now.  ❝  i  learned  to  kill  mercifully  before  i  learned  my  letters.  and  after  that,  i  learned  to  make  every  use  of  the  animal  so  that  nothing  went  to  waste.  mercy  does  not  end  at  the  slaying,  as  it  goes.  perhaps  you  might  surprise  h  —  ❞  a  quiet  chuckle  escapes  kas,  a  conciliatory  placation  following  the  ascent  of  his  brows.  ❝  i  mean,  our…  mutual  acquaintance  with  such  a  lesson.  ❞

[aenaos]

There is something impenetrable about the woman, like the slow swell of a glacier, the density of packed ice and compressed snow, the erosion of rock and the widening of valleys. Lenyra feels it, then: that familiar threading winding around her wrist and pulling her forward, the slight vibration that rouses her intrigue. What a blank mask for a face. Such hard eyes, devoid of color, flint with nary a spark. The scribe’s voice is a flat chord when she speaks. Lenyra responds with her lilting melody. “Priceless beyond rubies,” she affirms. “A treasure I now entrust to you.” She inclines her head in grace and thanks. “You already comprehend the value. That alone inspires care.”

In truth, she herself cares not one whit for dead paper whose price could feed so many lively mouths. Chew it. Sell it. Rip it. Burn it for kindling. At least then it would serve a purpose instead of gathering dust in a library. But Lenyra is the lady of delights, not the lady of necessity; she gives people what they desire, not what they need.

Her gaze lowers to the scribe’s steady hand, confirming what she suspected: that many priceless tomes have already been entrusted to the scriptorium, a veritable cornucopia of knowledge. House Yukimoto hoards its secrets as a dragon its wealth. Lenyra will have to satisfy herself with this little morsel in the shape of a woman, who guides her inks into a frolic across the paper. Even the still image portrays fluidity of movement, the half-stretch a ripple of limb and muscle, talon and feather. Hair flows across the siren’s torso like seaweed. Lenyra's lips tilt into a fleeting half-smile, eyes lifting to return the glance. She does not blink.

What follows is mimicry turned to art. She cocks her head. The ivory pins gathered at the crown of her hair shimmer with the movement. Lifting a hand, she gathers the hair left unpinned and sweeps it over her shoulder. Implicit permission. “You have a knack for exceeding a simple demand.” Her fingers curls around a dark lock. “And a meticulous eye for detail. Both must serve you well.”

[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.

[breweri]

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.  a  little  place  called  home,  both  man  and  house,  one  nestled  within  the  other.  𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧.  @sidereius's  leonidas  caelestis,  accosted by a fussy and  fluffy feline.

she  knew  it  had  something  to  do  with  him  when  the  steward  had  politely  addressed  her  as  nayuta  gozen.  an  honorific  for  a  lady  of  war  —  which  she  was  not  —  or  the  mistress  of  a  great  warrior  —  which  she  was  more  than.  and  still,  it  had  not  been  annoyance  at  the  disrespect  that  lodged  itself  in  her  chest.  its  place  was  quickly  stolen  by  fear,  a  cold  shock  to  her  system,  too  much  like  the  chill  that  oft  swept  through  the  halls  and  catacombs  of  the  cold  room.  her  reed  pen  clattered  onto  her  lectern  as  she  leapt  to  her  feet,  heart  lurching  in  tandem  to  block  her  throat.  and  when  she  had  swept  out  of  the  room,  she  had  moved  faster  than  she  ever  thought  she  could,  before  being  given  proper  leave.  while  none  of  the  other  scribes  had  stopped  her,  they  would  not  be  so  quick  to  act  for  their  own  spouses,  and  she  was  confident  in  that  wager.  they  understood  and  allowed  it  from  her  because  of  the  so-called  fairytale  they  helped  concoct.  one  of  the  few  gifts  of  house  yukimoto  that  she  would  not  squander. 

nayuta  had  to  take  her  victories  where  she  could,  when  the  fear  for  leonidas's  person,  for  his  life,  so  easily  moves  from  opponent  to  collaborator  with  a  fear  one  might  rightly  call  selfish.  that  others  would  trample  through  their  home  like  a  herd  of  wild  beasts  rattles  her  nerves  —  for  both  the  intrusion  itself  and  what  they  might  find  during  it.  for  all  her  dramatic  reaction  might  have  cast  in  their  favor,  their  dwellings  would  soon  throw  dark  shadows  over  the  idyll.  a  cold  distance  lingers  undeniable  to  even  the  least  rational,  a  separateness  to  the  space  one  could  only  ascribe  to  a  fellow  lodger.  not  a  spouse,  most  certainly  not  a  partner  in  life.  she  can  only  hope  to  get  there  before  the  heavy-footed  soldiers,  so  she  can  arrange  at  least  the  furniture  into  order  and  be  able  to  receive  him  and  the  requisite  guests  with  some  modicum  of  decorum.  warmth,  even  if  they  could  be  so  lucky.  the  hill  works  in  her  favor,  though  their  house  stands  at  the  halfway  point  between  the  barracks  and  the  cold  room.  her  husband  is  a  slight  man,  though  even  wheat  becomes  a  bother  on  an  incline.  she  has  a  tendency  to  hope,  where  he's  concerned.

but  as  is  her  lot  in  life,  she  finds  that  she  is  too  late.  there  are  marks  in  the  path  leading  up  to  the  building,  dirt  tracked  through  the  city  that  someone  else  will  have  to  clean  up.  her  only  semblance  of  luck  is  that  it  hadn't  gone  indoors  as  well;  instead  it  is  the  disturbed  ripple  of  a  rug  that  signifies  a  lapsed  external  presence,  and  a  low  rumble  that  indicates  a  more  familiar  occupation.  maru  would  never  purr  so  contentedly  unless  he  was  in  his  father's  lap,  fluffy  white  tail  thumping  rhythmically  against  leo's  thigh.  nayuta  follows  the  noise  as  she  would  an  echo  through  a  pitch-dark  cave,  a  palm  absently  trailing  along  the  wall  to  her  right  to  mark  her  path.  it  is  a  futile  gesture.  she  is  never  lost,  in  here.  her  path  ends  in  the  bedroom,  head  already  turned  to  the  side,  to  face  the  bed  closest  to  the  window. 

he's  home.  and  everyone  else  —  the  gawkers,  the  gossipers,  the  critics,  his  colleagues  —  is  gone.  and  now  she  is  left  only  exhaustion  from  the  exertion  and  anxiousness  beyond  belief.  and  him,  too.  a  soothing  enough  balm  if  she  allows  it  to  be.  ❝  fuck.  ❞  a  quick  release  to  siphon  the  tension  in  her  shoulders  as  calloused  fingers  pinch  the  bridge  of  her  nose.  she  squeezes  her  eyes  tight  enough  to  see  stars,  like  the  sort  that  mark  his  path,  and  then  she  exhales.  dons  something  close  to  tenderness. 

❝  you're  awake.  ❞  which  must  mean  he's  not  hurt  too  terribly.  nayuta  is  thankful  for  that.  small  miracles,  mercies  the  universe  forgets  to  steal  away.  stormclouds  loom  overhead;  she  will  not  be  able  to  ignore  them  for  long.  sore  feet  drag  her  to  his  side,  hands  hovering  above  his  frame.  her  cold  touch,  he  likes  it,  it  soothes  him.  she  should  render  it  now.  she  must.  she  reaches  out  to  brush  his  hair  from  his  face  instead.  ❝  you're…  here.  ❞

[aubadement]

Gilded carapaces, false identities, and indulgent lies swirled so heavily around the fraught reality Emeric had left. No more was there a gentle push and pull, no longer could he devise himself as the rabbit skittering just out of reach. He'd been long stationed within the prophetic coyote's mouth long before the city had ever truly lost it's luster to him. Even as secrets presented themselves, such only revealed more doors and pitfalls to stumble down or unto, each more puzzling and wholly disturbing than what had last been trekked.  If ever a house garnered more unsightly secrets than his own, it was House Yukimoto; fragile parallels of body and mind, but that which Emeric had never been granted invitation to be privy to. Such was his current predicament; stationed in front of Nayuta, struck with the reminder that this was where his trepidatious inklings were ceased in their footfalls, cut off at the ankle bone. There was a sigh from Emeric, shrugging as they provided the perfect mirror for his own misanthropic feelings; robotic, rehearsed, but their true feelings erred on another plane of existence and thought entirely. Wherever she was, drifting among the clouds of her true feelings, Emeric would not reach Nayuta there, no matter how he tried.  ❝ I hoped for you to illustrate what you believe represents me most , ❞ he was already vexingly aware that this would simply drift still in listless circles of his own ambitions, a silent match which neither was truly triumphant in. ❝ Or I should clarify—with your artistic prowess in mind— what you would figure represents House Orinthius most . New horizons , new sigils to consider . . ❞ Emeric spoke with little conviction to the idea, but he never minded being a time-waster, for each memory and thought he'd taken from others was borrowed to him just like his own time had served Aurea the entirety of his own existence. The tides would change, he would make sure of it, even if it took the rest of his own miserable existence to break the city down brick by gilded brick. 

[breweri]

she  found  herself  in  quite  the  conundrum,  being  that  she  didn't  think  much  of  anyone  or  anything.  there  were  exceptions  to  the  rule,  of  course  —  the  single-digit  number  of  those  she  cherished  and  loved  would  forever  remain  in  a  league  of  their  own.  and  the  magisterium  and  its  loathsome  brood  would  forever  rot  underneath  a  pile  of  refuse,  as  they  so  rightly  deserved.  her  own  house  could  not  escape  the  scorn,  not  insignificantly  because  they  had  been  the  root  cause  of  it,  and  so  it  only  stood  to  reason  that  their  peers  suffered  the  very  same.  of  course,  it  would  be  improper  to  paint  so  broadly  and  so  heavily  with  strokes  of  an  inimical  brush.  but  propriety  had  never  been  one  of  her  strong  suits  when  stoic  silence  preserved  the  image  just  as  well. 

nayuta  exhaled  slowly  as  she  cocked  her  head.  she  could  not  very  well  present  him  with  the  image  of  a  black,  endless  void.  a  chasm  —  perhaps  spun  as  something  akin  to  sisterhood  between  their  houses,  for  the  snow-white  field  yukimoto's  wide-eyed,  sharp-clawed  owls  soared  across.  but  she  did  not  think  it  would  go  over  particularly  well,  and  it  was  arguable  whether  the  concept  had  to  do  with  him  specifically  or  his  house.  the  purpose  of  this  act  was  to  spread  goodwill  among  the  people  of  aurea.  ice  cold  eyes  were  on  her,  as  they  always  were,  as  if  she  could've  ever  moved  a  muscle  unobserved.  there  would  be  no  scowling,  no  rolling  of  the  eyes,  no  scoffing.  no  jokes,  no  haphazard  ideas,  no  mockery.  instead,  a  placid,  respectful  smile  slid  into  place  over  the  duration  of  a  nod. 

❝  well,  if  we're  speaking  symbolically,  birds  are  used  to  symbolize  memory  and  wisdom.  corvids  in  general,  ravens  in  particular,  though  they  have  other  meetings.  ❞  it  would  fulfill  the  self-imposed  darkness  quota  well  enough,  she  supposed.  ❝  although,  i  suppose  i  could  see  something  of  a  jackdaw  to  you  as  well.  ❞  for  more  folkloric  reasons  than  the  traditional;  a  thought  she  would  keep  to  herself.  ❝  i'm  more  than  happy  to  inject  my  perceptions  into  the  work,  but  at  the  end  of  the  day,  it  is  your  request.  something  like  a  heraldic  shift  would  require  more  —  research,  i  suppose.  ❞  the  symbolism  came  from  years  of  study;  what  she  would  need  to  understand  is  the  house  itself.  most  of  their  ilk  knew  what  a  dangerous  idea  it  was  to  probe  beyond  the  glimmering  surface.  but  perhaps  that  only  meant  she  should  give  him  a  little  more  credit.  such  boldness  was  not  commonplace.  she,  of  all  people,  should  know.

[decthless]

closed starter for kastor — ( @breweri )

From ages three to six, he would speak only to his sibling; no one else. His father would hear him laughing and forming full, complex sentences behind closed doors, but as he came in, he went completely silent again. He'd become irate, bang his fists—pleading didn't work, bribery didn't either. It's how Baeksa discovered it amused him to push people to the brink. See what made them tick. Eventually, he learned words were powerful, and as this world had not gifted a more favorable body, at least he could yield those to his favor. He started speaking, then, but was always careful with his words.

He prided himself in being perceived a certain way—poised, beautiful, elegant. Reputation and appearances were everything to his family. Surely even one so pitiful as Kastor could understand as much, no? Why was it, then, that Haneul trusted this one above all others to care for him? He trusted them with his life, and this was no small thing. Trusted his life... on this drunkard, on a man who looked every bit as though he'd just recently crawled out of a tavern every time they met.

Were they mad?

"...Do you even know what a bath is?" he's looking at him as if he's an entirely alien thing, head tilted, slitted pupils still and judgemental, long hair draping down the delicate bump of his shoulder.

It vexed him, everything about him vexed him; the youngster huffed, contemplating, briefly, splashing their face with the water they'd been sipping, or push him down a river. Perhaps that would make him more pleasant...

"Must I clean you by force? Why is it that you insist on being so repugnant..."

[breweri]

❝  sure,  i  do.  that's  when  the  mean  people  in  their  robes  and  aprons  try  to  drown  you  in  a  man-made  pond,  yes  ?  ❞  when  kastor  was  the  youngest  of  his  family,  it  was  his  solemn  duty  to  make  sure  they  had  never  gotten  a  moment  of  peace.  some  of  his  brothers  were  full-grown  by  the  time  he'd  lost  them,  others  in  various  stages  of  puberty-induced  rebellion.  kad  had  been  the  bolder  one  between  the  two,  but  he  as  a  reasonable  sort,  and  their  parents  doted  on  him  as  a  living  angel.  kas  was  a  quiet  hellion,  equipped  with  a  quick  barb  and  quicker  feet  as  he  ducked  under  retaliatory  clouts  with  a  raspberry  at  the  ready. 

the  instinct  has  never  really  left  him  in  the  years  since.  in  fact,  he  might  embolden  himself  to  say  that  being  around  the  other  stokes  it  in  him  more  than  usual.  kastor  hywel  has  never  been  known  as  some  bastion  of  maturity,  but  he  has  been  famed  for  his  vigilance  and  strength  —  on  the  occasions  he  can  rouse  himself  out  of  his  stupor,  like  he  did  for  this  very  moment,  for  better  or  for  worse. 

bemusement  sets  the  quirk  of  his  mouth  as  he  looks  the  little  lord  kwon  up  and  down  (  far  down,  the  unkinder  bits  of  him  supply  ),  an  exaggerated  mirror  of  the  other's  derisive  observation.  silver  spoon  types  rarely  stray  from  the  norm;  true  character  is  a  novelty,  appearance  is  an  anchor.  the  former  would  never  matter  as  much  as  the  latter,  because  it  would  always  be  an  impenetrable  wall.  though,  to  be  fair,  he  could  look  the  part  of  a  proper  guard  if  he  mustered  the  will.  only,  propriety  hadn't  been  one  of  the  job's  clauses,  and  he's  just  so  very  comfortable  in  this  level  of  discomfort.  it's  funnier  this  way,  anyhow. 

❝  you  would  do  that,  ❞  he  gasps,  brows  soaring,  ❝  for  me  ?  lay  such  esteemed  hands  on  such  a  vile,  disturbing  person,  and  wash  the  filth  from  each  pore  ?  i  can  hardly  stand  the  weight  of  your  generosity  m'lord.  ❞  a  palm  presses  to  the  center  of  his  chest,  proof  positive  of  just  how  heartfelt  the  sentiment  is.  ❝  i'm  sure  your  elder  sibling  would  be  so  proud  of  you  for  such  charity.  ❞

[riguangs]

there's a certain discomfort that comes from being in places such as this one. where manners and etiquette take lesser priority, with its inhabitants drunk and ready to blow up at the smallest of sparks, looking for entertainment, then a brawl, and then forgetting what they were doing in the first place. it's crass, uncouth, and although haneul is aware this is the breeding ground for much information that has brought powerful men down, it does not mean they enjoy being here in person. put them in a room full of politicians ready to cut each other's throats with carefully picked words and thinly veiled accusations — they are at ease. put them in a bar with this much disorder and noise? they feel out of place. if these people weren't as drunk, they might have been able to tell haneul does not belong here. with dark purple robes with embroidered silk underneath, and the rigid straightness in their posture- they are unlike the other patrons. similarly, once they spot the reason for the visit, they slowly walk towards him, uncaring of anyone else around. expensive shoes halt in front of the corner table, eyes flitting over nearby tables, trying to spot if there is anyone who might talk. only two sentences out of kas' mouth, and it's more than enough to raise that familiar frustration up their chest. hands move to clasp in front of their robes, they let out a huff of breath, and speak through almost gritted teeth. "kastor." their voice low, monotone even through the noise. "it seems you still enjoy talking nonsense... loudly." and it does not help — especially considering there might be talk caused from haneuls' presense merely being here. then again, it is a low risk, low enough that they ended up here anyway. they take the offered seat without much complaint, finding it better to blend in rather than stand there as if a grim reaper. the glare they find themselves wearing all the time returns, and they reply, deadpan. "no, i come here all the time..." a glance towards the table next to them, the disgusting looking drinks that are spluttered over in conversation. "for the... swill." they return their attention back to kas once more. it is difficult to hold up decorum around him, to remain impassive, emotionless as they strive to be. he seems to be able to find right buttons to push, and haneul pushes back in return. "so- is this what you do in your free time?" a gesture around them, the rowdy drunkards, those trying to sing yet fail, awful dancers at one side. "seems... riveting."

[breweri]

the  query  sets  him  on  the  backfoot.  had  there  ever  been  a  time  where  a  request  was  so  cushioned  by  curiosity,  curled  around  disgust  or  otherwise  ?  or  had  it  always  been  curt  and  to  the  point  ?  protect  my  brother.  weed  my  garden.  and  any  other  task  menial  or  monumental.  he  knew  what  it  meant  to  be  charged  with  the  little  lord's  safety.  and  while  he  knew  he  would  never  hear  the  end  of  it  for  his  lack  of  decorum,  it  was  a  job  kastor  was  certain  he'd  been  doing  well.  but  enough  to  squeeze  a  tidbit  of  humanity  out  of  the  magistrate  ?  would  that  he  were  so  lucky.  perhaps  he  would  not  be  here  in  the  first  place,  if  that  were  so. 

❝  why,  yes,  ❞  he  answers  faintly.  ❝  it  is.  ❞  the  parts  of  it  he  can  remember,  anyway.  but  there  are  traces  of  him  everywhere  in  the  establishment.  in  the  bartender's  rolled  eyes  at  his  dry  jests,  or  the  nods  he  receives  from  other  patrons  as  they  enter  and  exit.  the  discolored  streak  on  the  wall  from  when  he  knocked  a  man's  tooth  out  for  forcefully  pulling  a  serving  girl  onto  his  lap.  the  little  etchings  kas  made  with  the  arrowhead  strung  around  his  neck,  usually  with  his  cheek  pressed  onto  the  cold  wood  of  the  bar  top.  even  if  such  memories  were  only  seen  through  a  morning  fog's  dense  haze,  kastor  could  not  ever  say  this  place  was  boring.  it  was  his  fifth  home  —  or  not.  perhaps  he  would  need  to  reorganize  the  rankings  soon. 

❝  people  come  through  with  all  sorts  of  wondrous  stories.  why,  just  before  you  got  here,  uh,  garth,  galen…  greg  —  ❞  ❛  GARED!  ❜  ❝  —  close  enough,  told  us  about  this  spectacular  fight  that  happened  this  afternoon  over  on  the  wharf.  ❞  he  shoots  a  smile  at  the  drunkard  in  question,  splayed  out  across  a  table  near  the  hearth.  ❝  knocked  five  people  into  the  water  he  did,  all  in  the  name  of  romance,  to  win  the  ardor  of  a  lovely  lady  fishmonger.  i'm  sure  someone  like  you  couldn't  imagine,  but  he  had  all  the  rest  of  us  swooning.  ❞  and  then  he  leans  in,  to  throw  haneul  a  conspiratorial  wink  before  he  takes  a  swig.  ❝  and  other  times,  people  even  tell  the  truth,  too.  ❞  the  offended  squawk  from  across  the  room  goes  ignored. 

instead, it is the other who makes kastor's  eyes  narrow,  half-suspicion  and  half  to  stave  off  the  fuzziness  starting  to  set  in  around  the  edges.  he's  still  not  wholly  convinced  his  mind  isn't  playing  tricks  on  him,  as  it  tends  to  do  in  the  smaller  hours  —  though  he  couldn't  quite  fathom  why  it  would  conjure  up  this  illusion  in  particular.  has  he  so  overplayed  this  prodding  of  kwon  haneul  with  sticks  both  literal  and  proverbial  that  his  subconscious  believes  it  his  favorite  pastime,  second  only  to  his  cups  ?  true  enough  that  it  was  better  than  the  miseries  haunting  his  steps,  but  perplexing  nonetheless.  an  unfamiliar,  vague  bit  of  rhyme  or  reason,  it  seemed,  yet  it  was  still  there.  ❝  if  you  intend  to  ask  something  of  me,  i  suggest  you  do  it  while  i'm  still  coherent.  ❞  soon  the  buzzes  would  start  to  blur  together:  that  of  the  tavern's  din,  the  noise  of  his  own  brain,  and  the  warm  tingle  spreading  through  his  torso,  if  not  also  the  other's  voice.  ❝  pity.  i  would  love  to  stay  and  play,  but  you  know  how  things  are.  since  you  love  the  swill  and  all.  ❞

[godsxchariots]

The lady before him, her spine as rigid and unflinching as the trunk of a sycamore, wore an expression that was not as soothing as the fine cut of her features. Alexei was accustomed to such a reception; but her words were felt pure, perhaps even truly inquisitive. He had taken to the Yukimoto estate with a genuine request in his heart; his introduction into the room where he now lay, had been a muted affair. Alexei had settled the aged volume before her, teeming with solicitude as he opened its yellowed pages, and gave his direction. And so, he had paused as she offered her question --- Alexei returned his answer with an unwavering gaze, broken only to trace his fingers across the table between them. "I wish for seraphs -- angels. But they should be morose, weeping." He fashioned these heralds of the gods in his mind with a specific countenance --- eyes that consumed and overwhelmed all other features, with their depth, teeming with beauty. Such eyes belonged to an elfland, or to winged creatures above; their existence upon earth had robbed Alexei of any peace. "Do you often receive more straightforward requests? I concede that my ask is ... unusual. But I have heard of your skill, and if I am to succeed in my aims, I require a deft hand." His eyes were fashioned upon the page, where an expanse beside refrains of ink lay empty --- it was here, in an epic that told of a knight bound to a tragic end, that he wished for Nayuta to display her prowess. "I wish for you to draw what you feel is beautiful, above all things."

[breweri]

an  angel,  yes.  one  face  in  particular  sprang  to  mind:  a  square  jaw  not  too  dissimilar  from  nayuta's  own;  doe-like  eyes  ever  widened  in  wonder,  always  following  her  around  a  room,  glittering  in  the  dark  (  and  oh,  how  dull  they  looked  in  the  end,  even  in  spite  of  the  sun's  hopeful  glow  );  an  upward  lilt  to  the  corners  of  a  pretty  mouth,  a  feline  curve,  or  perhaps  a  permanent  half-smile.  it  was  not  one  she  wished  to  see  in  distress,  especially  not  when  she  recalled  those  final  moments,  the  tenderness  in  the  girl's  wet  gaze  encompassing  the  steel  in  her  voice  as  she  uttered  her  final  words.  no,  there  had  been  enough  agony  set  upon  her  in  life.  she  would  not  immortalize  it  on  the  page.  a  lump  rose  in  nayuta's  throat,  pushed  down  swiftly  and  with  force  —  just  as  her  house  had  taught  her.  but  who  else  could  be  so  beautiful  ?  she  thought  of  a  visage  trapped  in  slumber  across  a  shared  bedchamber,  memorized  over  nights  of  guilty  vigil.  fine  features  etched  line  by  line  into  her  brain  as  she  loomed  in  the  darkness,  before  she  remembered  herself  and  retreated  into  her  own  bed.  that  was  not  a  face  she  would  like  to  see  twisted  into  tears,  either.

yet,  as  vexing  as  the  request  was,  they  certainly  could  not  say  they  disliked  the  challenge.  most  found  house  yukimoto  too  intimidating  to  mock,  but  there  were  some  with  just  too  much  cheek,  who  failed  to  resist  the  urge  to  ask  for  something  crass.  in  such  occasions,  it  often  seemed  that  their  curt  refusal  brought  more  satisfaction  than  any  anticipation  of  fulfillment.  and  those  individuals  were  lucky  to  query  them,  and  not  the  more  austere  members  of  the  scriptorium,  some  of  whom  were  not  afraid  to  test  whether  or  not  certain  people  would  ever  be  missed.  at  least  here,  the  sincerity  with  which  they  were  met  was  deserved,  if  not  wholly  gratifying.  ❝  we  do  not  typically  in  the  abstract  or  the  fantastical,  no,  ❞  they  confirmed,  ❝  but  we  welcome  whatever  commissions  the  public  may  have.  with  exceptions  —  of  which  yours  is  not  subject.  if  i  may  ?  ❞  gently,  they  reached  for  the  tome,  testing  the  feel  of  the  pages  between  the  pads  of  their  fingers.  no,  watery  inks  would  not  do.  ❝  you  need  not  worry  about  my  abilities,  ser.  ❞  yet  their  brows  lifted,  just  a  few  scant  centimeters.  ❝  if  you  would  permit  an  imposition,  what  are  your  aims,  precisely  ?  so  that  i  may  better  serve  them.  is  this  meant  to  be  a  gift  ?  ❞

[aenaos]

Lenyra watches dust motes dance in a beam of sunlight, arrested by the sight for a moment. At the question, her attention drifts back to the petite scribe, who seems to have manifested from the very pages she tends. Her hair is suffused in the deepest shade of black, as if she has been dipped in ink. At the same time, there is something insubstantial about her, thin as paper. Lenyra could not have conjured a better image herself. Presentation matters. She slides the bundle across the table, inviting the scribe to take a closer look at its contents.

"Sirens, yes," she affirms quietly. Gently tapping a fingernail beneath a line, she reads, "Beneath Thalassara's tempestuous waves live scaled maidens of salt and song, luring sailors to their doom. Their beauty is matched only by their hunger." Lenyra glances up. "This is the only firsthand account by a survivor. His deafness proved a blessing when he stumbled upon them."

A magister had requested her aid in expediting the acquisition of the writings, as most material from outside the city had to pass strict regulation before entering Aurea. She had obliged graciously. The illustrations are a pleasant touch—and a permanent reminder of her service. Lenyra tilts her head.

"I was told you are quite capable." The woman’s eyes meet hers. They are hard as flint. There it is. Substance.

[breweri]

her  entire  life  has  been  a  test;  she  can  feel  it  in  the  very  air  itself  without  words  or  looks.  apprehension  means  little  to  her  now,  apprehension  a  closer  and  kinder  friend.  the  only  one  she  has  left  in  all  the  world,  to  think  of  it.  but  even  as  nayuta  detests  being  prodded  at  once  more,  however  mildly,  there  will  always  be  a  part  of  her  that  rises  to  the  challenge.  it  is  ingrained  in  her,  as  inexorable  as  the  chill  that  permeates  her  forearms  and  hands.  ❝  oh,  my,  how  priceless.  ❞  the  only  thoughts  she  had  ever  spared  to  the  outside  world  were  in  response  to  the  dreams  of  a  voice  long  silenced.  nothing  will  ever  be  so  impressive  while  the  magister  blight  rules  the  city,  and  even  then,  she  doubts  she  would  ever  feel  the  desire  to  see  it.  ❝  well,  worry  not.  while  we  do  not  often  deal  in  such  rare  artifacts,  our  preservation  work  is  second  to  none.  ❞  for  they  were  good  for  little  else,  if  not  frozen  endurance. 

they  take  a  moment  to  let  the  other's  words  sink  in  before  they  start  to  draw a sample,  head  dipping  in  a  nod.  only  a  few  sparse  glances  are  sent  to  the  sheet  of  parchment  fixed  in  place  by  their  left  hand,  instead  more  interested  in  the  other  woman's  reaction  as  she  works  with  charcoal  held  between  forefinger  and  thumb.  quick,  lilting  strokes  form  the  teardrop  shape  of  the  bird-body  first  before  a  slender  torso  rises,  lithe  arms  raised  in  half-exultation,  half-tired  stretch.  wings  sprout  from  the  back,  at  first  a  great  expanse  before  they  dab  a  cloth  against  the  line.  a  pinion  instead,  forced  to  recall  that  they  are  meant  to  be  confined  within  a  space.  the  art  is  meant  to  supplement  the  text,  not  overcome  it.  nayuta  is  much  more  used  to  explaining.  flowing  hair  takes  up  what  room  is  left,  but  the  face  remains  blank.

she  cocks  her  head,  giving  her  client  a  once-over.  simple  flattery,  if  heavy  handed,  might  compel  her  to  replicate  the  delicate,  refined  features  meeting  her  own.  an  enigmatic  look,  as  fits  these  creatures  of  myth.  but  would  such  overtures  be  met  with  appreciation,  or  more  suspicion  ?  ❝  seldom  have  truer  words  been  spoken,  ❞  nayuta  says,  beginning  to  mark  out  the  shape  of  dark  brows  and  cat-like  eyes.  ❝  as  you'll  discover  soon  enough.  ❞

[breweri]

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.  the  crowded  bar  of  the  tarnished  tabernacle,  one  of  his  usual  dens  of  iniquity,  at  kastor's  usual  corner  seat. 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧.  @riguangs's  kwon  haneul,  a  loose  thread  he  can't  seem  to  stop  pulling.

❝  well,  well,  look  what  the  cat  dragged  in.  ❞  a  proper  turn  and  bow  would  be  the  more  polite  thing  to  do  —  as  befits  the  other's  station,  and  the  deference  one  should  show  a  repeat  employer.  in  kastor's  humble  and  very  backed-by-experience  opinion,  however,  it  was  familiarity  that  drew  in  the  most  coin.  and  perhaps  the  fact  that  he  had  imbibed  a  little  too  much  a  little  too  early  in  the  day  had  something  to  do  with  it.  if  he  could  keep  himself  bodily  off  of  these  floors  in  particular,  he  would  be  very  pleased.  so  as  it  stands,  a  wide  grin  is  what  greets  the  kwon  heir  instead,  partially  cushioned  by  a  hand  under  kastor's  chin.  ❝  if  it  isn't  my  favorite  tax  thief,  dear  magistrate  kwon.  ❞

a  foot  hooks  around  the  leg  of  a  stool  briefly  unoccupied  and  pulls  it  closer  to  him,  causing  his  neighbor  to  tumble  mid-sitting  motion.  kas  waves  an  apologetic  hand  at  the  angry  glare,  then  tips  his  head  toward  the  highborn  patron,  and  answers  the  frustrated  grumble  with  a  flick  of  his  fingers  toward  the  bartender.  altogether,  it  would  not  be  very  strange  to  say  that  this  is  his  element,  if  not  one  of  those  nice  hay  bales  outside.  each  time  the  two  of  them  had  crossed  paths,  kas  had  been  in  their  domain  instead,  pulling  at  his  collar  uncomfortably  as  the  trappings  of  gilded  excess  flowed  around  him  like  water.  it  was  only  fair,  he  reasoned,  but  he  would  be  as  hospitable  as  possible,  because  he  was  kind  like  that. 

❝  i  can  only  assume  you've  deigned  to  set  foot  in  such  an  establishment  because  you  wanted  to  see  me.  ❞  a  hand  curls  protectively  around  his  cup  as  the  other  pats  his  offered  seat,  flinty  eyes  narrowed  with  suspicion.  it  would  never  be  a  social  call.  ❝  if  i'd  known  you  were  looking,  i  would've  chosen  a  better  spot.  the  swill  here  is  garbage  —  unless  you'd  like  to  try  it  for  yourself,  in which case  i'd  say  it's  near  enough  to  the  nectar  of  the  gods.  ❞ 

[breweri]

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.  the  balneary  of  the  temple  of  sunfyre,  after  having  been  prodded  in  with  a  stick. 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧.  @sidereius's  aurel,  plaything  and  protectee.

like  most  things  in  his  life,  this  is  kastor's  fault.  a  kinder,  more  positive  influence  would  have  gracefully  lowered  his  head  and  sunk  into  the  tub  as  gently  as  he  could,  disturbing  the  water  as  little  as  possible.  or,  rather,  a  kinder,  more  positive  influence  wouldn't  be  in  this  position  to  begin  with,  covered  in  muck  and  filth  and  whatever  his  fellow  patron  spewed  all  over  him  last  night  when  kas  had  dropped  some  pithy  one-liner.  that  bothered  him,  actually.  he  was  proud  of  the  reaction,  but  he  could  never  remember  the  gag.  that  was  why  his  brow  was  furrowed  when  he  clambered  in,  splashing  every  which  way  in  equal  parts  consternation  and  absentmindedness.  and  then,  just  now,  when  he  almost  slipped,  that  was  because  he'd  been  slumping  petulantly  against  the  side.  if  he  had  any  sense,  he'd  have  propped  his  arms  up  on  the  rim  —  to  make  the  little  priest's  job  easier,  or  to  save  himself  from  the  potential  of  this  mishap,  either  worked  —  and  thwarted  the  humiliation.

as  it  stands,  his  nose  and  eyes  both  sting  and  one  foot  remains  stuck  in  the  air  and  the  towel  that  had  been  wrapped  around  his  shoulders  floats  pathetically  in  front  of  him  like  the  world's  saddest  lily  pad.  slowly,  he  wrings  it  dry  and  returns  it  to  its  rightful  place,  scooting  into  a  proper  position  and  leaning  back  so  that  his  dampened  locks  dangle  over  the  lip.  kastor  clears  his  throat.  ❝  we  will  not  be  speaking  of  that,  ❞  he  says  firmly.  that  he  is  trying  his  hardest  to  avoid  eye  contact,  neither  turning  over  his  shoulder  nor  looking  down  into  their  reflection,  is  just  a  tad  too  obvious.  ❝  in  fact,  i  don't  think  anything  happened  at  all.  do  you  ?  ‘course  you  don’t.  ‘cause  you’re  a  good  kid.  y'know,  in  between  all  of  those  contemplative  looks  you've  been  lost  in  lately.  ❞ 

all  embarrassment  seemingly  forgotten,  kas  flings  a  few  droplets  behind  him.  childish,  he  knows,  even  as  the  word  kid  falls  from  his  lips  and  his  other  hand  stretches  out  to  ruffle  curls  much  cleaner  and  softer  than  his. there is much of the lad as appears superior to this man over a decade their senior. praise be to whichever deity, be it the lady honored by this temple or otherwise, who continues to make it so. ❝  go  on,  then.  i  reckon  you  won't  be  satisfied  'til  i  smell  of  incense  and  piety.  ❞  his  words  are  not  unkind;  one  could  even  dare  to  claim  a  glimmer  of  anticipation  in  his  impish  grin.

[breweri]

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.  the  scriptorium  of  the  yukimoto  estate,  the  cold  room. 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧.  open,  to  supplicants  or  time-wasters.

though  a  futile  gesture  if  only  because  of  the  way  its  members  tend  to  get  that  wrinkle  in  their  nose  while  out  and  about  —  among  both  commons  and  mage  alike  —  house  yukimoto  paws  halfheartedly  at  the  appearance  of  generosity  by  offering  its  literary  and  artistic  services  for  one  weekend  per  turn  of  the  moon.  nayuta,  for  her  part,  does  not  miss  how  these  requests  always  seem  to  come  to  her  desk  as  opposed  to  her  numerous  peers.  such  an  expendable  quill  she  must  wield.  but  it  is  no  matter,  she  tells  herself.  she  could  think  of  it  as  resistance;  another  moment  stolen  from  their  labor  pool  was  another  moment  she  could  saw  away  at  her  house's  pillars  until  it  collapsed  under  its  own  miserable  weight.  such  ventures  rarely  yielded  tangible  results,  besides  letting  her  face  be  known.  but  there  were  worse  things  she  could  be  doing  with  her  time. 

and  better,  nayuta  thinks  bitterly.  though  that  could  be  said  for  most  of  her  daily  routine.  as  if  to  clear  the  thoought,  she  clears  her  throat  and  tips  her  chin  upward  as  she  refocuses  on  her  client.

❝  i  just  want  to  be  certain  that  i  have  understood  your  request  correctly.  ❞  she  speaks  slowly,  deliberately,  selecting  each  word  as  she  would  inks  from  the  massive  wall  behind  her.  each  little  part  of  the  whole  matters.  one  shift  could  create  something  else  entirely.  in  that  sense,  it  was  equally  as  important  for  her  partner  in  this  venture  to  be  just  as  discerning.  nayuta  would  never  voice  it  aloud,  but  she  has  her  doubts.  ❝  you  want  me  to…  draw  what  in  the  margnialia  ?  ❞