silverwood.

i was a boy and i was good, but there are witches in these woods. QIFREY. affiliated with isola radiale.

[conjuringink]

Qifrey, from Witch Hat Atelier.

A professor who runs his own atelier; he's got four little students he's teaching the ways of magic.

He took a young girl named Coco under his wing after she accidentally turned her mother into stone; at first, he seemed to have ulterior motives for doing so...

He's silly. He's so silly.

Very patient and gentle, but still firm in his beliefs and his convictions.

He only has one eye — the right eye was taken to him by Brimmed Caps as a child and he was left for dead, buried beneath a tree, with no memories.

so now he wants revenge.

Also, he's losing sight in his left eye now.

Scared of water and hates getting wet, which is why he learned to specialize in water magic to overcome his fear.

he's also a big fat liar

He's got a tree growing inside of him, and it grows more whenever he feels a little too safe and comfortable. Yeowch!

manipulate malewife mazewizard

just a normal man. he's just an innocent man

rules / app / stats.

cw: child abuse, child experimentation, eye horror, eye gore, body horror, parasites, suicidal ideation, codependent relationships, discussions of fascism.

this blog is not spoiler-free.

[conjuringink]

The cortisol spike is good for him. Keep it coming.

[witchful-eye]

★ A crooked smile painted his lips when he realized that Qifrey followed suit without any protest, getting dragged along just like in old times, even if he felt a tad guilty for putting him through this. Of course he knew that his friend wasn’t the most sociable person around, rather avoiding guests than inviting them. But Olruggio had agreed to lead this life with him in his atelier, secluded from the rest of the world, a small micro cosmos for them and them alone.

They were not as free as he would’ve liked them to be, even so far away from the Great Hall, the pact, the burdens of witch society still looming dark and heavy over them at any given moment. There were rules to adhere to, secrets to be kept; not here, not tonight. What an oddly liberating feeling it was. And he wanted to share that feeling with none other than his best friend.

“Ya need to relaaaax a lil’”, Olruggio slurred and staggered a little on his feet, the grip he had on Qifrey’s hand tightening to regain balance. Despite the unfamiliarity and strangeness, he enjoyed being among unrestrained people simply living in the moment, and he wished to join them - with Qifrey. The sudden compliment made him blush even more, the first genuine blush of embarrassment this night. “‘tis because I go out to have fun more often than ya do. C’mon.”

It would be good for him to let loose a bit. Especially since Qifery told him that he hadn’t really been going out in the past months. Seriously, did he expect his friend not to quietly pity him for that?

Olruggio let go of Qifrey’s hand and - inspired by the other people dancing around them - slowly let his hands slide down the side of his body. Looking up at him with half lidded eyes and rosy skin, his hair a little messy by nature, he made sure his fingers felt every single inch of it with intent. Eyes wandered downwards in tandem, lips agape when he finally reached his dainty waist and grabbed him. Oh, how often had he daydreamed about moments like these, albeit during more private circumstances, to be so vulnerable and open with him. He had never told the other how he felt, even if this feeling had been lingering, lingering in the depths of his heart with every word, lingering underneath his skin with every touch, lingering in his very soul every time his eyes gazed into his.

His gaze must have been fixated on Qifrey’s waist and his hand on it for a moment too long, the witch averting his eyes with a new-found flusterness and something else. A feeling that he can’t quite place yet.

That feeling however, led him to pull the man closer to himself wordlessly, exhaling softly when he felt them touch. Body on body. It’s a feeling that makes him dizzy, makes the noise around them dampen and so, so insignificant. There is music, and there is light, and there is an ocean of people - and there is Qifrey.

There is no explanation for what he is about to do, Olruggio taking one step forward, his foot shoved somewhere where there shouldn’t be any space in between Qifrey’s legs, and when he finally tilted his head upwards again to meet his eye, the witch cannot help it. With their bodies so close, he led the dance, which involved way, way too much friction between their bodies.

[conjuringink]

What he does not expect are the hands that land on his body, feeling as hot as the fire that Olruggio wields so skillfully. Like a white-hot brand through the tight fabric of his turtleneck, those hands leave burning trails as they run down the length of his torso. Qifrey's mouth feels impossibly dry. His mind is firing off on all cylinders, his nerves alight, panic rising up like bile in his throat.

With the most proportionate amount of hysteria, he thinks: I need to get away. I need to run. I need to go. I can't let him. I can't do this. I can't. I can't. I can't.

But in the low light and the pink glow illuminating Olruggio's flushed face, he looks gorgeous. His dark hair a mess, his eyes shining, his lips parted like Qifrey was the most amazing thing he's ever seen. It makes him feel shy, he wants to duck away from that gaze and pull his cloak over his head but another more ugly, possessive part of him wants Olruggio to keep looking at him like that. To only look at him, to never stop looking at him.

Qifrey gives a stuttering gasp when he's suddenly pulled closer. Their fronts press flush together. With their difference in height he can feel Olruggio's hot breath washing over his neck. Gooseflesh blooms along his exposed skin. His hands hover, uncertain of where to go, scared to touch. He hardly ever touches. Olruggio almost always initiates, but he can't remember the last time it's been like this. The leg slipping between his is caught up in his skirts and far, far too close by far to where it shouldn't be.

"Olly," he breathes out, trying to make his tone a warning; instead, it comes out as something plaintive, more of a whimper than anything.

One night. He can have one night. Olruggio is drunk, the likelihood that he will remember any of this is slim. All they will do is dance. That's as much as Qifrey will allow for himself, for both of their sakes. For his life, and because he is not the kind of man to take advantage of his friend in such a vulnerable state.

Slowly, his arms find their way around his friend's neck. The friction between them makes him feel like he might lose his mind, a thin layer of filmy sweat building on his face, sticking his clothes to his heated skin. Qifrey leans his head in, his nose pressed to Olruggio's temple.

His voice is a low murmur when he speaks, "Since when were you this bold? Ever?"

One hand moves to cradle the nape of his friend's neck, the other sliding down to his chest where his thumb brushes along the plunging neckline of his shirt. It ghosts dangerously close to warm flesh and a layer of dark hair.

"Someone might think we're lovers," Qifrey continues, voice dropping further into something dark like molasses. And maybe part of him hopes for that, too: that if anyone was looking at them, two men entangled with one another like no one else around them existed, would think there was no yawning void between them. That they were something. That Qifrey could have him. "Careful, Olly."

[conjuringink]

it's my apprentice's birthday today and if you don't cheer and clap for her right now i'll blow this whole fucking island up

[witchful-eye]

★ Some people were the makers of their own happiness, taking matters into their own hands and molding their fate into a pleasant future. Olruggio was one of these people. Some other people had to be forced to their own happiness, being dragged and hauled and carried to it. Qifrey fell into that category.

So when the witch had suggested a fun night out together – see the sights and see the people, “let’s enjoy ourselves a little!” – and his friend had immediately, yet politely, declined, Olruggio knew that this would not do. Here they were not bound to any duties or secrecies, they could live open and carefree, which was a feeling that invigorated him and made him want to go and try out new things. Not that his magic worked anyway, so might as well make the best of their situation.

As per usual, Qifrey had to be forced along.

Once they reached Olruggio’s spontaneously chosen destination it didn’t take long for him to strike up a conversation, getting to talking to other people, happily introducing himself to the other party-goes and sharing drinks and jokes and insights. And when he was invited for liquor and cocktails it was impossible for him to decline, gladly agreeing for someone else to tab the bill. Not that he fully understood the wonderous cellphone contraption, anyway, let alone how to pay with it.

It was pleasant to talk and drink, getting fully involved in an ongoing conversation about things he would be too bashful to talk about sober. Oh, and sober he was absolutely not anymore, slurring his words and snorting as he needed a moment to separate jokes from innuendos. When he felt that familiar tap on his shoulder, Olruggio turned around with a wide smirk, cheeks flushed red as he looked over to his friend. “Qifrey!” he exclaimed, leaning a little too much into the touch. Mentally he was already preparing for sentences like, can we go home?, have you not had enough?, I think it’s time to go. But when none of the sort came out of his mouth, the witch looked borderline shocked, the shock slowly shifting into pure, genuine bliss.

Qifrey was taking the initiative? And quite demandingly so? Ah, that must’ve been a drunk hallucination, but he wanted to indulge in it so badly. “Thanks for the drinks, pal, I’ve important bus’ness to attend to.” Olruggio slurred, patting his sponsor on the chest before turning to Qifrey, grabbing his hand.

“Thought you’d ne’er ask,” slowly he turned to jump off the bar stool, tripping during the motion and almost falling over but catching himself right on time before continuing to drag his friend onto the dancefloor. He’d definitely had one too many already, but it didn’t matter, he felt good, he felt great actually, and he was asked for a dance by no one other than Qifrey. How could he not feel anything but absolutely over the moon?

Olruggio clasped the man’s hand into his own, the environment and music unfamiliar to him, but letting himself be swayed away by the feeling either way.

[conjuringink]

Olruggio should have said no.

He should have said no, laughed in his face, kept drinking, and kept letting that man flirt with him.

Qifrey feels like a fool for even asking, and he feels like an even worse fool for even assuming Olruggio would ever deny him this. The look on his face, eyes wide and moony and cheeks flushed, shocked and delighted, makes Qifrey feel a little dizzy. Maybe it's the alcohol. No. He didn't drink enough for more than just a pleasant buzz.

The hand that takes hold of his is warm. It's always warm. There are calluses and old burn scars, a harsh contrast to the soft skin of Qifrey's own hands. He's thought many times about those hands on him, all while miserably sitting alone in waist-deep, cold water.

He's pulled onto the dancefloor and the gesture—being pulled along by his best friend—is so familiar that he almost feels like a child again. If it weren't for the smell of spirits and smoke and the heat of bodies pressed impossibly close around them, he could almost believe they were.

Qifrey had been silently observing the clubgoers as he sat at the bar in favor of ignoring whatever drunken man had decided to come up and attempt to court him. Thus, he has a vague idea of what movements qualify as 'dancing' with this music, which looked a little less like dancing and more like a scene from a brothel.

The thought of doing that with Olruggio makes his knees a little weak. It's a testament to his self-control that he's able to keep his composure at all.

Being this close to his best friend, their hands joined, might normally make that wicked thing within him grow. Now, however, with the flashing lights and the loud music and the sea of bodies, he simply can't find it within him to relax at all.

"You'll have to lead," he says, leaning in closer so Olruggio can hear him over the sound of the music. The other's breath stinks of alcohol and the platter of bar nachos they had split. He smells a bit like sweat, too, and there is always that lingering scent of smoke clinging to his clothes. Qifrey wants to press his face into his neck and breathe it in, he wants to drag his tongue over the warm skin to pick up the taste of it and feel Olruggio's pulse jump under the heat of his hungry mouth.

He doesn't.

"You're much better at dancing than I am."

[blightsbite]

❝ Oh, sorry, aha— ❞ The man might find it startling that this shrub of thistles indeed has a voice, slumped so hopelessly amongst the other planters. It comes wearily through all the foliage, heavy with the grim futility of having resigned to a flowery fate. ❝ I'm not a plant, I'm a person… I think. ❞ The human shape between all the thorns and violet florets gives a sudden cough. Perhaps 'person' was the wrong choice of word. ❝ N- No, I'm, not quite that either, actually... I'm all hollowed out in here. That's, hgh, probably why these things keep growing back so fast... ❞

❝ I'm empty soil, maybe... So after a while of this, I just, let them grow... People keep cutting me free, and I admit, admit, admit, but they keep onnn growin'! Haha! And I'm so—so tired now so I've decided to rest here. ❞ @conjuringink — a crocus among us.

[conjuringink]

It's hard to swallow down the wave of nausea that crashes over him at the sight. Something far too familiar, really, although much more... pointy; if someone were to kneel on this man's foliage, it would surely tear through their clothing and slice their delicate skin.

Hollowed out. Sometimes, he wishes he could be that: empty, entirely at peace, no worries. Yet no worries signals danger, and the roots will grow.

Qifrey does not know how to help this stranger. He couldn't summon a pyreball here, and burning the thorns and flowers would risk bringing harm to this man.

Perhaps there is nothing he can do. He folds his hands in front of him, considering the other before him.

"If there is nothing to be done to help... would you simply care for some company, then?"

[lawfuliet]

@conjuringink

" Excuse me. "

He was standing outside of the patisserie, smart phone in hand.

" I'm looking for a willing volunteer to help me test out a hypothesis. In order to do so, you would have to have to go into this shop and make a purchase on my behalf.

. . . You wouldn't be using your own money for this, I will transfer the funds to you in the event that you are interested in assisting. "

[conjuringink]

Ah, even here it seems he isn't free from strangers asking him for assistance...

Really, his first instinct is to simply say "no" and keep walking. But... hm, well, if he makes a pit stop here, perhaps he could pick up some after-supper treats for the girls and Olruggio...

"Generally, one would offer a bit more information when propositioning another for a favor. What, exactly, are you looking to get from this?"

[fiafey]

this is not enough

[conjuringink]

It felt odd to have his days filled with very little responsibility. He still cared for the girls, still kept the atelier clean, still cooked meals, and still ran necessary errands, but without their magic at full capacity it was quite difficult to teach. So he tries other lessons: cooking, gardening, cleaning, music, public speaking, mathematics, literature...

Still, it doesn't take up as much time as he'd like. So many from his world arrived so close together, and his home is filled with more noise than it has been for months. He's cooking for multiple again. He's doing extra loads of laundry. The washroom fills up with muck and must be scrubbed more frequently now. It's something he didn't quite realize he missed until it happened.

But outside of that... there were no Wises here, there was no Knights Moralis, no Pact, no Brimmed Caps. They were free to do as they pleased. He's only ever known living under the thumb of the Pact and those that enforce it, even living so far out into the countryside.

Olruggio has plans tonight. He had invited Qifrey along, and Qifrey had pleasantly shot the offer down. He had little interest in drinking and dancing among strangers; Olruggio was always the partier of the two, much more people-driven than he lets on. If no one needs me and a tree falls in the path no one even takes, do I even exist? is something he once recalled his friend saying. Qifrey expected Olruggio to go out, to have fun.

What he did not expect was Olruggio to bodily haul him out of the atelier, insisting that it's about time he stop holing himself up here every day. That hidden strength in his shoulders was always surprising, and always reignited an uncomfortable churning in his guts.

It's a club situated just off of the boardwalk in the Golden ward. They're seated at the bar, Olruggio's already a few drinks in, and neither of them have had to spend a single bit of dust. For whatever reason, the men crowding around them are insisting on purchasing their drinks for them. It's loud in here, from the music and people talking. And cramped. He hates cramped. It smells like spirits and something else sickly-sweet. The lights are dim, save for flashing neon strobes that would be like a lance through his skull were he to remove his spectacles.

His face feels warm, but he's not quite as drunk yet. There is a man talking to him but he's not paying much attention to what he's saying, instead laser-focused on the man that's currently speaking to his friend. Who has his hand on Olruggio's arm, is sliding it up his elbow. A vicious, ugly feeling rises up in him. His gaze darts away and he downs the last of his current glass.

"Pardon me," he murmurs to the man speaking to him, then turns to Olruggio. He dares to reach out and tap his shoulder to grab his attention. "Olly."

It's either the alcohol, the jealousy, stupidity, or all three that makes him say, or rather demand: "Dance with me."

@witchful-eye

[arsarcanima]

(sniff) "Oh, very well, if there are children in your care I'd- (AHCHOO!) I'd settle for some- (AHCHOO!) directions. If you know a- (AHCHOO! goodness gracious!!!) detour to a nearby... cave? Or other- (AHCHOO! oh for the love of-) any other shelter relatively nearby, that would be welcome, there's no way I'm making it back to civilisation on these little legs any time soon ahaha!" Why did they say that. "Why did I say that?" He doesn't need to know that. "You don't need to know that." What. What. What.

They must be delirious from lack of oxygen due to this dreadful pollen. They take out their handkerchief and attempt to stem their running nose. This stranger doesn't need to see this.

"I'll (sniffle) gladly take your offer to wash up, however. Perhaps washing off this pollen will (AHCHOO! AHCHOO! ugh.) clear my sinuses enough to hold a proper conversation. Not that I'm usually a sparkling conversation partner anyway, it's probably why I never made many friends back home. Stop that. Stop talking. Why aren't I sneezing anymore. Um! If you could- (AHCHOO! oh bless Thaliak above.) if you could point the way to your washroom I'd be very grateful!"

[conjuringink]

Oh, poor thing. He does feel quite sorry for them. This pollen certainly is quite heavy, enough to make even him feel a little clogged up. Qifrey moves aside and lets them enter his atelier, shutting the door quickly behind them to mitigate the amount of pollen getting inside.

"Wait just a moment," he replies, hopping the ledge down into the dining space instead of taking the few steps so he can enter the kitchen. He returns moments later with a closed vapor bubble, leaning over as he offers it to them. "You simply open it like this and tilt it forward."

He pulls the vapor bubble open. The water shifts, wobbles, sparkles; it reflects the stranger's puffy face back at them. Qifrey passes it over.

"If you go past that hall," he nods in the direction of the catwalk leading to Olruggio's workshop, where the man is likely toiling away on some personal project, entirely unaware of the stranger in their home. "You will find the washroom to your right. Use that contraption over the basin. There should be clean towels available, I've just done the washing."

[allswell]

@conjuringink

❛ Vous n'êtes pas à la bonne porte, oui? ❜ You are not at the right door, yes?

Standing brightly in the doorway of the Chorus (quite a feat to find, tucked in just so at the end of a particular alleyway secluded from public eyes), Cecil is all smiles as he blocks the doorframe with his spotless white gloves.

❛ We are, perhaps, looking for an exit? A shop? It is along that way, monsieur–this lane is pour usage privé uniquement. ❜ For private use only.

The door behind him is firmly shut and the room beyond it clean—overpoweringly so, with a distinct scent of disinfectant.

[conjuringink]

If there's one thing Qifrey's good at, it's finding things he shouldn't have. Mostly due to the fact he was quite hopeless with directions, often getting lost even in the most familiar of places. Archimedes was all stark-white walls, much of it looked very much the same to him.

He feels quite like he really shouldn't have stumbled onto... whatever this is.

"My apologies," he responds pleasantly. "I'm not quite familiar with this part of the city."

The stench of cleaning supplies is nearly the same across all worlds, isn't it? This is a smell he can remember from his brief foray in the Medical Spire, usually when the medics were cleaning up before or after surgeries.

"...This is quite a peculiar location." Qifrey's eye flickers to the man before him, then to the door. "I would be careful. Some people might begin to think you're hiding something."

[heraldmade]

there are magics at play here iloren isn't privy to. the gaps in his knowledge are filled by the silence in between words, unspoken things that don't reach his ears.

he listens to the ones he's given attentively. qifrey decides to trust him with information he's sure not many people know. suddenly he wonders if he's one of the only people that regularly come to the atelier. maybe he's the only one who's outright asked like this. so he was given an answer.

still, he bows his head with modesty as he thinks it over, an apology in its own right that's followed by an acknowledgement.

' i'm sorry. i didn't mean to upset you. ' the opposite was his intention, but he knows that intention can't always reach the right destination. he nods to himself and to qifrey.

' i won't tell, i promise you. i'd never betray your trust like that. '

to underline his own words, he reaches out with his left— the green, glowing anchor on display in his palm, offering it for a handshake.

[conjuringink]

It isn't easy to trust a stranger. To say Qifrey fully believes Iloren's promise would be... a lie, but he does think he should have some faith in him. He can sniff out dishonesty quick as it is, and Iloren seems wholly genuine in this moment. Qifrey's hands move, sliding up his arms to hug himself.

He blinks at the proffered hand, contemplating it. The green glow brings him some unease, which is not unwelcome; it keeps the parasite at bay. There are many worlds with many types of magic he does not understand. Worlds where one truly is born with that innate ability. Where magic can come from the body, and be cast upon the body.

Slowly, he reaches out, his hand taking hold of Iloren's to give it a delicate shake. It retreats quickly, back to grasping at Qifrey's robes around his waist. He turns back to the basin.

"Thank you," he responds, hushed. "Ah..."

How does one save this conversation? This is painfully awkward. This man is still a stranger to him and he unloaded a bit more than he would have liked upon him. How terribly rude.

"Would..." Qifrey clears his throat. "Would you care to stay for supper? You needn't worry about assisting with preparation or clean-up, I can manage that on my own."

An olive branch in its own way.

[witchful-eye]

★ This cellphone device truly seemed wondrous, and Olruggio already began to daydream about all the countless possibilities it could hold, on top of the functionalities Qifrey already had shown him. But there was a fond, cozy warmth spreading in his chest when he realized that he could stay in touch with his friend no matter where they were. Ah, of course he would only use this for virtuous things! ( ⓛ ω ⓛ )

Without hesitation he follows the other witch around, curious eyes scanning the area around them, feeling both a sense of familiarity, but at the same time feeling entirely out of place. The plants looked familiar but different, the animals looked familiar but different, and once they had entered the establishment, everything looked familiar but different.

Everything. Except for Qifrey.

When the staff called him Qifrey’s date, Olruggio couldn’t hold back a snort, turning his head away to hide his expression, but then clearing his throat and beaming brightly at her. His friend seemed to be a regular here, and from the sound of it, he usually came here alone. Indeed, that sounded like a thing he would do. And while he felt a somber, profound sadness at the fact that he couldn’t positively reply - and Qifrey quickly shot the notion down - he also felt a little sorry for the other man. Apparently even in another world he seemed to have trouble finding friends.

Oh, how awfully lonely you must have been, my friend.

But once sat, he offered him a gentle nod, immediately making himself comfortable on the cushions. “I trust your judgement. I’m pretty sure there’s no one who knows my tastes better than ya do.” An innocent compliment, and a fact. Qifrey after all was doing most of the cooking between the both of them. Not that Olruggio didn’t know how to, he could very much hold up in a kitchen, but he more often than not was too tired after working to prepare a whole meal.

Indeed, there was no one who knew him better.

“Besides, honeybush sounds close enough to honeytree. The Noki you make with it is delicious…”, and a little absentminded he added, “I miss your homecooking…”

[conjuringink]

It makes his heart flutter, but it is accompanied by an itch beneath his skin, one Qifrey promptly squashes away by digging his nails into his hand, kept out of sight beneath the table.

"Not to worry, I still cook most of the meals in the atelier."

"Although, storing food long-term without the magic cookpot has been a lesson in its own right. I can no longer make as big of portions for fear of them spoiling..."

He was supplied one of those "refrigerator" contraptions, which has been wonderful for storing drinks, eggs, and dairy, but a hearty stew doesn't quite taste the same reheated on the stovetop after it's been sitting cold and congealed... ah, he supposes he'll get that cookpot back eventually, it will just take some time. It's been quite the wake-up call, and he wonders if this is how the non-witches back home have had to operate their entire lives.

Their order comes out quickly. Two trays are slid onto the table before them, two separate teapots with matching teacups and saucers. Olruggio's has a star pattern, something that Qifrey's eye lingers on perhaps a little too long. A plate of finger sandwiches comes next, smoked salmon with cream cheese, cucumber, egg, and chives. And then a platter of biscuits; perfectly soft, sweet, and chewy.

Qifrey reaches over and picks up Olruggio's teapot, carefully balancing it in his hands and tipping it to pour the golden-brown tea into his friend's cup. It has a faintly sweet aroma. A good choice for those with a sweet tooth who are trying to cut back on unhealthy sugars.

"Eat as much as you like. I can always order more." He has plenty of Dust saved up, as he rarely spent it on anything besides necessities. This time, he can afford to splurge a little. "If you don't like it, we can ask for something else."

He pours his own tea. It's the closest he can get to willowgrape marktea, but it still isn't quite the same. Qifrey brings the cup to his lips, the steam causing his spectacles to fog up. Head turning, he looks out of the window that they sit in front of.

"I often come here to... people watch," he admits. "And it's where I get most of my tea leaves to bring home." The teacup is set down with a soft clink. "The workers all know my name by now." It's embarrassing, really.

[conjuringink]

Coco's birthday is soon. Very soon. Less than a fortnight away now, isn't it? He has to figure out what to make for her... and what sort of gift she may like. Maybe it'd be best to simply take her out for the day and let her choose herself? After all she's been through, the burden he's forced her to carry, it's the least he could do.

Ah... he'll figure it out, hopefully without letting anything slip to her.

[conjuringink]

💕 + 👀

mun talks about the muse.

💕Favorite ship for the muse?

do i even have to say it... LOL... i straight up only ship him with olruggio, i can't see him with anyone else. even if i make jokes about him being easthies' ex or something. but yeah him and olly make me feel diseased.

👀Favorite thing about the muse’s appearance?

i love his entire design so this is kinda hard. love his skintight compression turtleneck that unbraids at the collar to expose his throat. also his hair + the fact he tends to dress all in white/grey, and his willowy proportions, really feel like a reminder that he has a silverwood tree growing inside of him. like ahh i see. the signs have been there all along.

[conjuringink]

happyyy munday

name: zacharie age: 29 pronouns: he/him timezone: pst where are you from: USA characters in the group: qifrey (you are here!), wolfwood (trimax)

a little about yourself:

writer. occasional artist. i like to tell jokes and make people laugh. i have been writing since i could pick up a pencil. every day i have 2 cats screaming at me at all times.

i have a lot of opinions, the tendency to ramble to anyone who is willing to listen, and am not afraid to be myself unabashedly. love to have fun with friends. love to connect with people. have very little tolerance for bullshit. trying to be more patient and kind. i want to be your friend. let's be friends. spinning you around

[heraldmade]

' uh huh, ' iloren says. he's been watching the display at the kitchen counter very attentively. choking on your own spit as you deny something will make it harder for people to believe you. and it's not as though he wasn't convinced of his initial assumption.

not that it's about a title. the dalish have always taken the relationships they have very seriously. there's closeness in this atelier that's easy to see just by looking, a shared comfort and intimacy that's not easy to replicate without sincerity. whether or not the both of them are truly together … does it matter, when they so clearly are already, even to strange eyes as iloren's?

' but aren't you? sharing your life like this. ' it's only gentle curiosity. he hasn't quite figured out whether qifrey truly doesn't mind him or if he's being polite. and while teasing him about it lays on the tip of iloren's tongue, he holds himself back for now.

he likes his sessions with olruggio. he wouldn't want to disturb them by disturbing the host.

' have you asked him? '

that usually seems to solve complications like this— it's something iloren likes to offer even when people protest right after. but isn't it the easiest way to get to where you want?

that may be the problem. the wanting. he couldn't tell, not from how fresh these connections between himself and the residents of the atelier are. it's why he asks.

' he may hold a different opinion. '

[conjuringink]

It's uncomfortable, wildly so. Most everyone who makes the mistake apologizes and moves on once they are corrected, but Iloren keeps pressing and Qifrey can feel that scared little boy still stuck inside of him wanting to force his way out and tell him to piss off, to mind his own business.

No, that wouldn't be necessary. This is Olruggio's friend, and he is not interested in sabotaging that friendship.

"I don't need to ask him."

Snapshots of memories flicker through his mind. Sixteen years old, they'd gotten into his master's wine cabinet and Olruggio's tongue had gotten too loose.

Twenty, a year into living in their atelier and they had a heated argument which turned into crying confessions. He can still remember how Olruggio's still-growing beard felt brushing against his face.

Twenty-three, dancing together late into that year's Silver Eve. He'd followed while Olruggio led, something so familiar from their time as children. His hands were soft compared to Olruggio's, worn and scarred from constant invention. Qifrey couldn't help himself. Olruggio had assumed later that he'd simply drank too much and passed out.

Twenty-seven, not long before his fourth apprentice arrived. I have somethin' to tell ya, Olruggio had said to him one night, voice low and dark in a way that made Qifrey shiver.

These memories are Qifrey's burden to bear. Each time ended the same: forgiveness, tears, pleading, branches and roots ripping his skin, and his cap atop Olruggio's head. He was not allowed these joys, these pleasures. He was not allowed the comfort of his friend's love and devotion.

"It's," Qifrey takes a shaky breath. "Far more complicated than I could even begin to describe."

He's wringing his hands anxiously. Short nails scratch into his skin.

"Please understand, I do not enjoy restraining myself. Circumstances make anything more between he and I, ah," he swallows, "dangerous. For us both. He knows. But also does not. Do not tell him."

That single-eyed gaze darts back to Iloren, pleading. "Please."