carve & spit

[claymourn-blog]

⚔✧*:･ﾟ  ◟@vesselize said: ceremonial knife is good ◝ 

❝nothing to complain about a good blade. surprised to meet another person with good taste; I almost thought everyone in our year would just be another bunch of boring nobles.❞ little does he realize that he isn’t talking to Edelgard whoops

[claymourn-blog]

exasperation: the barest inflection of a snarl between bloodied teeth. fingers at his sides curl, index extended, ❝why are you still here.❞

his shoulders bristle in the face of frostwinds, mouth bleeding an acid when trailed by yet another familiar ghost—as if one arriving half-submerged in the swamp wasn't enough already. the Inspector is the last man he ever expected, ever wanted to see in his lifetime not out of any semblance of animosity but a deep-seated anxiety ( closing of walls, knives at the throat, arm outstretched a moment too late ), burning away what little patience was held in reserve for a time like this. the brow furrows, a tangled war being waged in the pit of his stomach, drumbeats growing louder when every step finds itself paired with an echo, every look over the shoulder met with a smile, & he seethes.

❝the case is over. go home.❞ a pained finality to his words ( there's nothing for you here ), stressed beneath a heavy weight / shame, beckoning for the man to abandon this fruitless chase for justice while his wings remain dovelike.

@amournful // chants plastic tactics

[claymourn-blog]

amournful‌ //

come on felix you know you’re my favorite omega

you’re lucky I haven’t killed you. yet.

[claymourn-blog]

[claymourn-blog]

Felix is someone who struggles severely with his emotions, having done away with so much of his former self to make room for the anger and weakness he feels in the wake of Glenn’s death. He’s often described as previously being carefree and cheerful, someone who clung to his friends close and was more endearing and sociable than the scathing ghost he’s become now; in the years since the Tragedy there’s no doubt that he’s become highly unsociable, partly due to a refusal to forge camaraderie with others and the rest having to do with an inability to connect like he used to—therefore becoming emotionally stunted and socially awkward. This often leads to a lot of misunderstandings such as when he interacts with Bernadetta and Annette due to the reputation he’s accrued during his time at the Officer’s Academy, which he makes no effort to amend as he actually sees it as another form of defense from people not worth his time. Yet with all of this in mind, it’s to be reminded that Felix is terrible with emotions, especially when conveying them into words. Oftentimes he goes from one extreme to the next, rarely staying in a middle ground where he can be understood save for with only a few specific individuals. He isn’t someone who wants to open up let alone broaden his circle, not just because he has no interest in those with differing opinions but because he’s lost his ability to do so.

[claymourn-blog]

byresu //

      ❝ you held your own. ❞

a nod in acknowledgement as her blade returns to its scabbard, eyes not leaving her studen. it was like staring at a reflection. there was a desire to grow and live evident in the boy, one akin to her own, once her father had taught her to fight. combat was a lifestyle she had known for most of her life, so his comment comes as no surprise.

some would commend her skills, as her students do — but others were afraid to hear her name. such fascination and fear have dubbed her as the “ ashen demon. ” in many ways, felix was right, there weren’t many people like her: a warrior undaunted, a woman who seemed like she was born to wield a blade.

      ❝ i became a mercenary at a young age. i’ve spent years learning from my father, ❞ under his tutelage, she learned a style that not many have witnessed. an upper edge of sorts, having a skilled teacher for a father, but now it was her turn to pass the torch.

      ❝ — but you’ve improved, felix. i noticed you’ve anticipated some of my attacks. ❞ she says, critiquing his performance. ❝ you’ve been training hard. ❞

he mindlessly swipes his arm as if still wielding his blade, trained on the outline of her shadow, ❝hmph; it’s still not enough.❞

enough is when his muscles quiver & die, bled out & raw. nails dig deep into his palm when forced to acknowledge the ever-widening gap laid out afore him, the long road towards power a neverending gauntlet of trials; it’s as much infuriating as it is exhilarating: a one-on-one duel, silent save for the sharp clash of blade & crunch of fist in jaw ( ideals discarded, instincts heightened to hyper-clarity: the laws of the wilderness are laid bare, where only the fittest may survive ); the aftermath might be a bloodied spectacle to most, but to him—it’s all he can ever hope for ( he counts his lucky stars that one as frustratingly skilled as Beresu entered the fray, threatening to knock his arrogance down several pegs ).

until then, he must continue to learn, devouring all that he can with the voracity of an emaciated beast, bowing his head in seldom respect towards his betters ( eyes glaring upwards ). until then, he must swallow the praise & bow, knowing it will never be enough.

❝your father... Jeralt, right?❞ his head lifts to address his professor, curiosity glinting in his eye, ❝a sparring match with the Blade Breaker—now that’d be a real treat.❞

[claymourn-blog]

amournful //

          There had been nothing left of Miklan’s body to salvage. Whatever the man had once been was reducible to the indistinguishable intestines of a Beast. Should Sylvain have been alone, perhaps he would have laughed so frenzied a laugh it would have devolved into sobbing. He would laugh at the cacophonous irony of his brother finally resembling that of which he had always been: a Beast. And Sylvain would have wept so sincerely and lovingly, the Saints would have found even the most exquisite of grief in his tears. Sorrow born of responsibility. Was one not meant to love their brother? Sylvain loved Miklan as one did a persistent bruise; knowing it to be part of the self / tender, stinging. Miklan could hurt him no longer. Well, physically. Sylvain could not imagine that the phantom would be any more forgiving. 

          Sylvain had not slept, as Miklan’s death had awoken within him some coffin of unresolved trauma he had long thought sealed shut. Of course he had not confronted it, for he had thought there nothing to confront. Well, he knew of the something, but men oft soothed their own souls by acting as if nothing could harm it. Even in that moment, he refused to sleep, sitting in the gardens with the world having gone quiet. It was unbearable, yet he had not the constitution for the usual late-night trysts. Women could not excite him, and their touches felt unbearable. He would heal, as he always did, and he would be able to continue his lascivious lifestyle. Eventually. But he was naught more than a grieving man sitting his vigil in moonlight; swathed in silver and sorrow. He hated this frailty of his own character, this soft love that somehow half-forgave and half-damned the man who had done nothing short of brutalizing him for 17 years of his life.

          He should not have been surprised that Felix was awake, as the man did not sleep if there was still time for training. Still, he had not anticipated his presence so near the gardens ( Sylvain propped onto one of the seats and watching the sky, studying nothing in particular ). Sylvain had no need for regarding Felix, for he knew his gait and its cadence better than his own breaths. 

         Sylvain shut his eyes, as if finding the will to summon the mask, before they opened, and artificial light flooded honey’d depths. Irides flickered towards Felix, and he smiled ( except that was more genuine ). ❝ Shouldn’t you be asleep? If you’re too burnt out from training, I’ll carry you back to your dorm like I did when we were kids. ❞

@claymourn

phantoms hold little regard towards the living, tangling their sere fingers around the ankles in a last-ditch effort for control. & it seemed all of Faerghus had its fair share of hauntings as of late. Felix sees how ghost-bones weigh on the Boar Prince’s shoulders, sees it on himself in the looming shadow hanging overhead in the disgusting visage of his fallen brother ( abandon the dead & their stranglehold tightens ), even his father continues to revere his promises to a dead man, & now he must suffer seeing the craven haunt of Miklan wearing away at Sylvain in ways that might break even the most lionhearted of men. convenient it must be to the rest that Sylvain manufactures paintings of himself hale & hearty for the world to see, but Felix ceased believing in such beautiful fantasies ages ago, the magic lost on him as much as the chivalry he scorns in the depths of his soul. perhaps it was instinct that called him to the gardens, a bothering sixth sense when it came to Sylvain that he’d be there alone & vulnerable to his newly-acquired sorrow. a frown sets upon his lips when his suspicions are confirmed, arms crossed while avoiding eye contact with a false front.

❝I’m fine,❞ he starts, lulling to something reserved for one, ❝how about you, though?❞

Felix remains standing for a time as the moon illuminates its radiance on the grass, shimmering like a sea between them. some distant part of him yearns to reach out, shamelessly offering a branch to the lost as if to say that he shares in his pain—all duly quieted by an inordinate sense of pride. Felix has become too cold for anyone’s liking: a frostbitten warrior of a man so unlike those who came before, the disillusioned rebel sickened green by the anointing of his brother’s charred corse. even in the aftermath of that day ( four years, four long, grueling years ) he still feels like his flesh is scrubbed raw, angry at everyone & anyone who stands in his whirlwind of a fury, no longer friendly to the idea of softness. he remains angered even now, perhaps even moreso in remembering his witness to brother killing brother. he oft welcomes death through an open window, but this? this is a shunning.

a scoff, ❝no offense, but you look like hell.❞ ‘twould be an understatement, but he supposed it better than his friend throwing himself at women left & right ( a putrid taste in the back of his throat, emerald ire bubbling in a cauldron left unchecked ), unconcerned for his own well-being.

[bleudied]

I am the blizzard that knows no end: a beast housed in human flesh.

[claymourn-blog]

———  BASICS! ♡

NAME! ♡ Shinya PRONOUNS! ♡   He/They ZODIAC SIGN! ♡    Leo TAKEN OR SINGLE! ♡  Taken chefs kiss lov my gorlf

———  THREE  FACTS! ♡

1! ♡   I have a near-encyclopedic knowledge about most religions, cultures, and mythologies because I’m a nerd who spent too much time researching and reading, like I read Beowulf when I was 12/13.

2! ♡   I have a cat tongue to where I have a serious issue with eating or drinking anything hot, like I need at least 2 ice cubes in my tea/coffee or else I can’t drink it it’s kinda awful sdlfkjsldjf

3! ♡   I’ve written an essay comparing Homestuck and The Odyssey in university.

———  EXPERIENCE! ♡

PLATFORMS USED! ♡     I used to use DA, DA Chat, MSN, Skype, email, texting, Google Docs, but now I only have energy for Tumblr; I’m old and slow lskdjfksdjf

———  MUSE  PREFERENCE! ♡

GENDER! ♡  I almost always pick up male characters, though that doesn’t mean I would refuse to write a female character. Sometimes I go feral and make them agender for That Healthy Dose of Projection.

LEAST FAVOURITE FACE(S)! ♡ I’m not a fan of people using younger fcs for adult muses. I also take particular offense to when people treat all Asians as the same and treat Chinese/Korean/Japanese fcs as one and the same. :^)

MULTI OR SINGLE! ♡   I had one?? Multimuse, and that didn’t last long because I had another muse that demanded all of my attention. Nowadays I prefer single because I like developing an entire aesthetic/style for one character.

FLUFF / ANGST / SMUT! ♡   I like fluff, but angst is where I thrive the most and people hate it when I slap them across the face with the sads. >:3c I only write smut with one person, and generally I don’t talk a lot about more intimate details regarding my muses because I have too much shame to talk about it in public lskdjfsdf

PLOT / MEMES! ♡    I infinitely prefer plotting over doing things on the fly because my improv skills are horseshit, but I do like continuing ask memes. Crack is generally relegated to close friends because my humor is super specific ;;v;;

tagged by: @amournful ily tagging: uh

[leareymauzaize]

Danger doggo

[owletowo]

Felix

[macrolit]

… we cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever.

1Q84, Haruki Murakami (via macrolit)

[asteraws]

this guy

[claymourn-blog]

amournful //

          ❝ Break time wasn’t even that long. Everything aches. You kill one Imperial bastard and then seven more show up to take the last guy’s place. Lay down with me. We can nap together. ❞ He said such a thing, yet he rose ( bruised and battered with his skeleton forged of iron ). Sylvain’s sense of duty was far greater than that of which he spoke of, and for his philandering and his theatrical demeanor, at his core was something noble that loved his country, that could not even begin to fathom death without effort, without rebellion. He oft thought of the open, frightened faces of those upon his lands, and could not help but feel whole once more ( purposed pressed into his heart but it went beyond that of his people / engagement ring kept carefully within his saddlebag as he and Felix traveled border to border ). 

          ❝ Geez… ❞ Sylvain stood properly, expression thoughtful.  ❝ Not like this is a cheerful question, but how much longer do you think we can hold out? It isn’t like we have much of a plan for if we win either. Your old man is the highest ranking noble–would he lead? Would we do something like the Leicester Alliance? ❞ Sylvain dusted himself off next, still contemplative ( more of a scholar than he projected, his mind racing with ideas for government ).  ❝ Winning sounds like a dream, but if by some miracle we did, we don’t have much of a plan afterwards. Morale is good after winning the last battle but for how long? Call me crazy and maybe I am, but that nap? I was spending the whole time thinking about everything. Dimitri isn’t gonna come back, that much is obvious. We shouldn’t pin our hopes on a dead king and yet…  it’s all so complicated. ❞

arms crossed, exhaling through the nose. he maintains a veneer of calm, but even his bloodlust  ( battle-hungry! winter howls tearing frostbite through open wounds ) wears thin eventually, limitations of man’s mortal form leaving his breath irregular—focus frayed. ❝I give us a few more months of holding out, & that’s me being generous. I’m not sure what my old man’s thinking right now, but it’d take a lot more people than just him to even have a fighting chance.❞

that’s also assuming enough nobles are willing to pitch in to this warring effort, brow pinched in thought, this battle of attrition coming to its eventual close. the Shield of Fraldarius might be resolute, but behind that steel is still just a man: a man who remains incomprehensibly loyal to a fallen king, waiting still for the savior scion to rise like a phoenix from ash. thus it falls to him to maintain a realistic perspective of the encroaching crimson, but let him be damned if he were to die now, leaving the innocents, the weak—leaving Sylvain to fight this war alone. gelid as he might appear, unapproachable & unfriendly as he chooses to behave, that stubborn Faerghus nobility endures someplace deep, deep, deeper than his kindness ( a smouldering flicker / Goddess’s mercy he can still manage to feel whole ), only rearing its chary head once in a blue moon.

❝no; he’s not dead. the boar’s got insane survival instincts; he’s more likely to be off somewhere fighting than dead, but I doubt he’s in good shape considering what we’ve heard from Fhirdiad.❞ consider it an educated guess: years, a near-lifetime, of knowing the youth as a human, knowing the man as a starving beast, knowing that vengeful spirits dare not fade ‘til their hunger sated. the boar prince will not die so easily; he’s willing to bet his blade on it.

he turns, a motion of the head, ❝c’mon,❞ they can walk & talk.

[claymourn-blog]

a raised brow, acknowledging an innocent request by taking off his glove & brandishing his hand close to Sylvain's face. the daily weight on his finger delivered no shortage of embarrassment, reminding with every firm grip of his blade that there's someone waiting for him to return alive & in one piece ( no longer a lone wolf, the burden of his life that much more valuable ). it seemed excessive, impractical, but he cannot deny its charm ( nor the warmth of a growing smile as he aches for the presence of his other half ) as it reminds him of the man’s fiery hair: a passionate vermilion, burning through the snowfields of Faerghus. Felix waves his hand, the crimson of his ring flashing in fire’s light. ❝yeah, I've still got it. why? did you think I'd lose it or something?❞

@amournful // gäy

[claymourn-blog]

⚔✧*:･ﾟ ◟@amournful said: Holds his hand and kisses each of his fingers◝

sharpened eyes made sharper as the warmth grows close to unbearable & his bones twist 'til muscles ache, organs rearranged to an unrecognizable mess. this is what he does to him: this ruining, this unraveling. what was once a well-oiled mechanism for killing has become something softer, whetstone vanished & left to be smothered, crowned with feather kisses. it's a sharp bludgeoning / dull pierce, breath supply cut short from arm's length closeness made smaller, the space between them nonexistent ever since he took a leap of faith to the other side.

❝you're such a sap,❞ says the wolf warrior, fighting a smile. he lets himself fall for the trap, his blade dulled to caresses of another’s face, then pinching sunlight’s cheek & tugging it playfully.

[claymourn-blog]

daphnael //

          “ … the food in the dining hall is too spicy today. ”

❝learn how to make your own meals. you like reading, don’t you? then go find a cookbook.❞