darkness has always got there first.

[decthless]

#decthless

written by   lenny .   she/her   .   28   .   brt   .

"No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it."

nuwa sheng, he/him, lord of perrelor keep, heir, strength. 35. (luo yunxi) |  intro. tags.

chae baeksa, he/him/they/them/it, lord of greenspire. 25. (lee felix) |  intro. tags.

[prodigxlis]

Shameless, yes, that is her. Shamelessly sitting in the sun, where he cannot reach. Not that he could, she thinks, even if she stepped into the coolness of the shade. Baeksa is delightful to be sure, and she enjoys deeply the sound of his sighs, the whine of his worn-out voice—but in the wake of such delights comes bitter aftertaste. Not his fault, of course. He is as sweet as sin, and twice as wicked.

Impish little thing. Now, Ruoxi does crack a smile—a whisper of a sharp grin. It is telling that there is nothing to correct. “And be bereft of the sight of you?” Her eyes linger on his bare shoulders, on the shape of his waist. She’s tempted to make him turn on the floor for her, to make him bare his belly for her sharp eyes to pierce. “You ask for too much, but that is how I spoil you.”

With her eyes closed, the grace Ruoxi usually sheds comes easily. It makes her look like the painting of a young woman, one who is not her. Someone you trust. She could think of not a single one. Her siblings had all gone distant, and her mother… her mother. There is a weariness within me that only grows, she thinks. If you’d spent less time in bed and more in battle, perhaps we could have made you earn your spurs, something echoes. “I’m thinking of your tempting skin.” Whip-quick, she reaches past and into the darkness, and pinches his cheek. Then, she retreats. Ha!

“I think of nothing because the buzzing of those unwanted in my Hollow make such a ruckus, it is even a wonder one can hear anything at all. Some are such a dreary sight. The crimson-eyed, most of all. I’ve had enough of that crawling stench of death, seeping through the halls.” If Ruoxi lingered too much on the news of what had happened in Braxigarian halls, she would heave. “What is on your mind? When you are not left struck dumb from me wringing you dry.”

[decthless]

Laughter spills, bubbly and childish as he pinches him—honeyed as it drips down thr plush softness of lips, and he softens back into his disheveled state with a languid sigh. "Liar," he accuses without hostility, without any of his habitual insidiousness—fondness rinds his mouth instead, at the edges his lips, at the dimples on his cheeks, the unfocused blue of his eyes.

Baeksa speaks too plainly and without disguises for once; he needs to shelter to her, for no dark corner could hope to hide him from her assaulting light. "You," he mouths to her, cloying-sweet, mocking—or was it? The crinkles around his eyes are such a rare sight; joyful child, summer child, he was a weed in her garden, but bore all the likeness of a flower in bloom, born to bear the warmth of summer in his bones; the winter of their world did not suit him in the slighest, the winter of his soul was plenty a cold to endure on its own. "You are like the sun, Lady Fenglian... scorching and bright and impossible to get close to. When I am covered in you, every other thought is eclipsed. Even the most grim ones. Even death."

He looks every bit the winter sparrow, sprawled on the floor, wings nestled in snow, abandoned dreams of lazy summer days buried in him. The cold of him will not end but he relentlessly chases her warmth—even as his fingers sizzle against the sun and he watches the smoke twirl in crisp tendrils to heaven, his skin turning grey, wanting to become dust. "Come to me," the young lord coos to her, needy and gentle, as if he wished to pluck dandelions from the ground to decorate her lovely hair with, the meekness of him veiled beneath the soft flutter of his lashes, the gentle rise or his lungs. "Come to me, I'll cover your ears." He smiles, puncuatint the quiet invitation, the honed edges of his mouth smoothing into something tender and submissive, the ache left in his fingers cooling as they are forced to retreat back into these lonely shadows of his. There is nothing to be gained from this—nothing tender in her for his razor teeth to tear through, and yet he makes room for something soft to bloom in him.

The contradiction of her, girl and whirlwind, cruel and benevolent, knight and sinner, it held him captive, willingly enslaved by her charm. He would not look away, even if his eyes went white and blind from her light.

[wanshangs]

location : nuwa chambers ⏲ the forgotten  world from : nuwa lian , liege of greenspire to : nuwa sheng , lord of perrelor keep [ @decthless ]

while the seeds of suspicion were planted long before their arrival in elaris keep, the news that followed only made it grow faster. the uneasy feeling in the youngest nuwa grew, taking more and more place within his lungs, threatening to break through his ribs. before hearing about the death of the ruling lady, before knowing the name that had been on the list, there was much to be happy about, it was easy to ignore the nagging feeling. for once in what felt like decades, their relationship had felt lighter, in the wake of their spar and matching bruises that ached, yet left them laughing as if they were young again. then, the glee of being able to leave braxigar had come, and made any speculations unimportant. but now, as the young nuwa paces around in their room, waiting for the elder to come out, he is left with a feeling he cannot begin to describe. within his grasp, there are pieces of a puzzle that do not fit one another. whispers that were barely heard, sheng ushering people out of rooms, something happening at the corner of lian's eyes, yet never fully visible. by all rational capacities, it's paranoia. another manifestation of his fear of being left out- of being abandoned, this time in knowledge, not in presence. he could very well ignore this, add it to his list of shortcomings, yet he is nothing if not impulsive, and it only tends to get worse when his emotions run amok. once the other is within grasp, lian walks quickly up to him, expression serious, hiding the distress underneath. "sheng." lian starts, and the words threaten to burst out of him, after having been ricocheting inside his skull for too long - at least by his own standards. "i need to talk to you." a pause to take a deep breath. "back in vallarion, do you remember you told me to come to you when i feel if something is amiss? if anything feels wrong?" another step forward, crimson hues meeting those that should be familiar. lian doesn't know if they are. "i think something's wrong." the pin drops. "and you are keeping it from me."

[decthless]

There is no surprise where there should be, he can feel nothing but exhaustion these days, the hunch in his shoulders straightened while the weariness of the soul continues to cling to him, bone-deep, where eyes cannot seek him, cannot pick him apart. The Nuwa must stand strong against the horrors of this world, it is what they're for—warriors made of stone, made of steel, but even stones crumble with time under relentless assault. He has overstayed his welcome in this world, he thinks to himself sometimes, longing for the judgement day where the dead would rise and his sword may be put to rest. Perhaps there was longing in his plea, back when the flames engulfed him, a secret wish to be loved by death as much as he has loved it so fiercely, for ao long, holding it inside him through all these years of solitude.

His hands were bloodied and bruised from holding the door shut, from trying to keep the monsters from spilling out—but they had gotten through anyways. All of his efforts, wasted, all of his strength for naught, and now his hands too injured to reach for those he loved. What was he to do now? Maybe Marya was right all along. Maybe they were always meant get through, maybe he was always meant to be defiled, consumed by this ugliness in him—adhere to the monstrous role cast for him. Maybe his insolent refusal to accept the inevitably of their doom was his folly.

"Lian..." his voice is soft, drifting like smoke as he greeted him in faint acknowledgement with a nod; he remembers, of course he remembers. It surprises him, though. That he had come. He hadn't expected him to listen. Lian seldom does what he is told—least of all when it comes from him. He wants to be elated—that he came to him, that some part of him still sought shelter in him, but the suspicion in his eyes would not let him delve into fantasies. It is warranted, he knows, but it hurts all the same. Would he come to think of him some treacherous, foul thing?

"Ah." A quiet, resigned vowel. Then: "I see." Spoken dryly, like sandpaper on the tongue. He was practically ambushed; there is little time to think of a way to dodge his questions or evade his clutches before Lian is upon him, claws unsheated, asking questions he had no answer to—none he wanted to hear. He supposed it was inevitable, for his brother was many things, but stupid was not one of them. But he wished it didn't. He wished he remained an ignorant child, reckless and naive forever, looking at him as though he held all the secrets of the universe. Were they just born to be torn asunder? Sun and moon, eclipsed by the weight of their decisions? He did not want Lian to go, but he did not know if it was right to keep him. Could he hold onto anything good without breaking it?

What is he supposed to say here? The truth? That everything was wrong—everything felt wrong. Even his own skin, these days, felt too tight around his bones, as if something else was trying to claw its way out from within.

How could he? He would leave him too. He would leave him anyways.

"...and what is it that you think I'm keeping from you, exactly?"

[aenaos]

Cian seemed less a patient in need of ablation and more a butcher’s carcass, bloodless and drained of the boyish fervor that usually ran so hot it bordered on ferality. She had expected to find a weeping wound, not the absence of one; the absence of anything, really. Lenore watched the hollowed shell of his face while something inside her unwound; it was not concern, but fascination. He bore his sorrow with a kind of hollow dignity, and if the quietude of those cherubic features drew her in, she, whose heart had never been a wellspring of pity, knew others would surely find themselves entranced as well. She held his hand as if cradling a glass-spun reliquary, keeping quiet, both measured in stillness and present in the warmth of her skin where it touched his. There was no need for words; a shelter need not announce its presence to draw in the weary. He would come to her as he always did, lay his head in her lap and ask for her hand to soothe his brow. So when his voice finally broke the silence, her head turned only slightly; midwinter eyes fixed on his face with the slow-moving attention of a swelling stream.

Then came the sound of a door.

Then the boy returned, if only momentarily.

Lenore did not need to turn her head to know whose presence had beckoned life back into Cian’s features; yet she did, for she wanted to see him as well. “Sheng,” she said, and no more; the name rang out as less a greeting and more an acknowledgment. My monster.

Lenore watched the tapestry unfold; a thousand stories were woven in the threads she saw forming between the two men. She knew her suspicions had been right, for they were now so tightly interlinked that separation would mean rupture. There would be no clean cut, unlike the symbolic patricide she would one day excise upon Cian; some bonds ran deeper than blood, especially those rooted in the heart. Watching Sheng’s lips graze the boy’s temple with care bordering on worship, she felt like an interloper; yet shame did not follow. After all, had she not woven this tale, or at least set the spinning wheel in motion? She, who was mistress of weft and loom, held the spindle that kept them all together.

So she rose from her seat in a murmur of skirts and stepped close enough that her presence became less an intrusion and more an addition within this strange tapestry.

Death, maiden, lamb.

“I knew you would come.” Her voice was soft, like velvet cloth drawn across skin. “Such sorrows should not be carried alone, but in the company of those closest to the heart.”

Her eyes moved slowly back to Cian, and her fingers reached out to brush a russet curl from his brow.

“Tell me, dearest,” she murmured, “what do you need of us?”

@prodigxlis

[prodigxlis]

Cian had shut himself in a birdcage of his own making—golden gilded crystal windows, tall and open to the night sky; distance, from the world outside. A necessity due to his own brittleness, waiting for the craftsmanship of Lenore’s hands to fill the cracks of him with her stalwart silver. But now, here is a man that could break past those walls and shatter him with nothing but a whisper. Cian had gifted him that power as if it were nothing but a common flower, after all, and had done so with glad hands.

Sheng had never been one that Cian had ever feared, not until now. And so the soft words are an absolution, one that he is slow to trust—not due to the man’s own faults, but his own desperate desire for them making him doubt it being so easily got. It is the touch that breaks through the madness. Cian does not stand, but rather turns his head and allows himself to burrow into the safety of Sheng’s arms. He hides there, breathes him in, lets the comfort of it drown him enough until the dam within him overflows and snaps. Cian does not shake nor sob, but his eyes well up with practiced silence, leaving tear-tracks over Sheng’s heart.

He is peeled raw in front of Lenore. That, in itself, is more soothing than their shared quietude had been. If she were to find him wanting now, it would be for the whole of him. There would be no ambiguity to hide behind, and no more to give.

If the world was kinder, he could hide in that safety forever, and yet, it is not. Still, he lingers as he looks up, meeting Sheng’s crimson eyes with his bloody own. “There is nothing to forgive.” Rather than to cut, Sheng had come to mend. This is a bond that Cian would not allow to break.

Already he had prepared himself to cross the boundary and had been interrupted mid-step. Now, they would both be witness. Cian stands—leaving both their affections behind as he walks further into the balcony, now with the background of the nearby stars. “My father has refused to see me.” A pause. “And all I've got are news, twisted as they have passed through countless hands. I am ignorant to what he plans, and neither do I have the luxury to wait for him to deign to let us find out. When I took to the title of Council Lord, I did so believing that I would turn what is considered a weakness within Braxigar into a strength without. Let my meekness match theirs, so that they would find me an equal, and finally understand.” He turns to them. His voice breaks at the admittance that follows. “I was wrong.”

Weakness, it had remained. No longer. Cian’s gaze hardens.“I am no old fool, set in my ways out of pride and stubbornness. If this method does not work, then I must find another. These killers have furthered their reach, and now they tear into our flesh and render us into nothing. They’ve lit a pyre which they wish to use to drown us in the darkness it casts; for our foes dwell in the shadows, speak in whispers, linger in the walls—but so do you.” He steps forward, towards her. “Lenore.”It had always been her. Cian would learn to walk with the wind of the storm that would follow her. “They have tipped the scales in their favor through blood and fear. Let my weight be the one that brings the balance.”

He bows, deep and supplicant. “Let me be your hands in the light.”

@decthless

[decthless]

The sorrow of him ravages him, silent and stifled against his sternum where it should be deafening, where it should pour like a diluvium and wreck the very foundations of the keep; still he ushers him into the safe confinements of him, into the space he had cleaved open inside his chest for him to inhabit, into cage he had made of himself for shield him from the mindless, hungry teeth of the world too eager to clamp around anything tender and soft. He holds his hair like some tether—cheek brushing against his tremble, fingertips aching, winding the brown curls of his in a quiet, soothing grip. He wanted to take his heart in his hands, hide it away from the rest world like gold.

There's nothing to forgive.

Wasn't there? He had failed, he realizes now, as he watches his body grow cold and his posture rigid. Not the boy he loved—but the vestiges of something he had failed to keep safe. That was always the point, wasn't it? Of every compromise, every cruelty, every stain upon his conscience—he had endured them with grace, bowing his head for every lash feasted on nothing but darkness for years—it would all be worth it if people like him, if he should never have to carry such burdens. But now he asks to be a scythe, asks to be yielded. Will that hand reap life too? Will it cast others into damnation? Will it stain red with sins he cannot wash away?

He wants to warn him: once you cross over, there are things in the darkness that can keep your heart from ever feeling the light again.

But he would not heed his warning, would he?

He watches Cian slip away from him little by little, gone, drifting, and he knows he has failed, in every way there was to fail. He lets go, fingers curling reflexively at his side, old scars pull taut beneath pale skin. He is a night that raves and moans, restless, uneasy, filled with dread—the loss of purpose leaves him without aim, floating in the emptiness of himself. He says nothing more, not a word, not a sound, and the way his hand falls feels final, an unspoken relinquishing hope as he surrendered to his own quietude, his head turns from her, from him, a final act of resignation.

The moon paints him in melancholy's image, perched high in the skies, and like Cian, entirely out of his reach; the pale ghost of his face full of woe, absent of mirth. His heart bleeding, aching, pinned to his throat. He can taste bile, in his head a pounding of a drum, and his rage—his rage will not slumber, but it feels deflated as his shoulders curl inward, spine wilted with defeat, his mouth was a smear of seeping sadness. It seemed to invade every part of him, down to his very marrow. He mourns him like wolves mourn their own, standing over their bloodied caress, howling in grief. Where was he when their innocence was torn asunder?

I am ignorant to what he plans, he says. and neither do I have the luxury to wait for him to deign to let us find out.

He wants to laugh at the absurdity of the sentiment. Did he not know? How could he not know? He could tell him now.

He'd scorch the earth searching for what he lost. And if he could not find it, he'd scorch it all the same, for daring to deny him. He would have done the same, he almost had. A man driven mad with grief, a man willing to burn the world down for the one person they care about—that's a man he could understand.

He is smiling—but it's a beast's baring teeth, soulless, quiet footsteps leading him to a deserted corner of the opposing side of where the shadows could cloak him in their familiar embrace. He leans there, without speaking, hunched, where bloody eyes can wander off into the darkness, hands gripping at the railing. For the first time he feels tired, alone. That crippling, aching loneliness that had crawled into him during his years of isolation crawls back to him, reminding him it never left. How could he forget it? The dry, sharp exhale is almost laugh, dead too soon, a chill against the warm weather as the wind rustles with the inky blackness of his hair.

@aenaos

[decthless]

closed starter: @insatiabilitics location: the gardens of elaris keep

All the childish excitement drains from his face as his head whips back to spot Taemris' familiar face, his eyes wide and incredulous, his crumbled form on the grass suddenly aghast; you'd think him not used to the sight of injuries when it could not be further than the truth. "Morvaen—" those plush lips round into a perfect, bewildered 'o', a quiet, soft vowel cushioned against his tongue.

His dainty, bare feet push him off the ground, padding over to the assassin across the vibrant, velvety grass in a rush, dropping all the beautiful flowers he had been collecting, colorful petals scattering about, floating to the ground as he saunters off, doll-like head lolling, fair lashes blinking unwittingly. "Oh, my... what horrors did you endure during my absence? May I not leave you be for even a moment?" the scolding is a soft as a feather plucked of a winter bird, his hand gentle as it reaches for his cheek, molded for the single purpose of cupping, but doing so without touching—he leaves a gap, as if expecting the other to lean, pushed onto his tiptoes to reach him. "Now, what kind of savage would hurt such a beautiful face, mm?" he coos, tucking one of the remaining flowers in his grip still behind the arch of his ear.

"There," a brief flicker of a satisfaction flashes. "Come now... let me take a look." the young Chae ushered, grabbing his hand as though they were children frolicking in a meadow.

[decthless]

closed starter: @celcstine location: a balcony in elaris keep

"Oi!" the small, pale sylph-like spirit beckons from its perch, standing high atop the stone balcony, the moon a halo behind his skull, the milky white of his gown rustling against a playful breeze as he hurries to wave Lathander over with those dainty fingers, tiptoeing closer to the center, and bending himself awkwardly to peek at him through the doorway. "You—where do you think you're going?" he's all saccharine as he calls, despite all, heavy-lidded and too relaxed for a proper scolding. "I'll take your apology in cursive," he informs. "I like... long loops and hearts dotting the i's..." a pause, and as he leans, his lips to stretch mischievously. "But I suppose if you insist I will consider letting you suck me off."

A sharp exhale flares his nostrils, just briefly so; the winter of his hair tossed over her shoulder, mouth pursed disapprovingly; he offers him all the orchestrated affectations expected of him, and then allows himself to soften a little. If Baeksa were truly bothered, after all, he would have made it known. He's missed him. Won't admit to it, of course. Instead, he holds out his arms with the strained tolerance of a half-tamed animal, his face turned away as though he could not stand it. "Come now... let's hug let's make up."

[decthless]

Open Starter:  [ accepting 0/3 ]    Location: a balcony in elaris keep

A breath; he feels his lungs inundate with air and must urge himself to exhale before he turns blue. The stone, solid and rigid beneath his fingers, cracks, and he clings to the fraying edges of his sanity with all the helplessness of a child, the glass offered glittering across the floor now like scattered ice, catching the moonlight that spills through the open balcony unbidden. His temper, his accursed temper—it seems more than ever he feels the reigns of control slipping from his cadaverous fingers. Was this where his sanity left him at last?

A shattered decanter bleeds red into the stone beneath his feet, mostly wine—but some of the red was his, pooling amongst fragments of crystal. He hadn't indulged again, couldn't. If he could barely contain himself sober, he fears what lower inhibitions would cost him once sobriety crept into the next sunset.

Corpses, corpses scattered all around him, he could see them so clearly every time he closed his eyes.

Blood trails lazily over his fingers, collecting in the gaps of his fingers and grooves of old scars and fresh abrasions alike as the Lord of Perrelor Keep exhaled. At least people made a habit of avoiding him—he was thankful for that today, of all days. Breathe, he urges himself at the sound of footsteps, brushing his thumb over the skin over his knuckles—the stone crumbles where his hands had been, his jaw tightens. He grunts in acknowledgement, a low, deep sound where words fail him.

[decthless]

closed starter for: varyn mirethorn (@moonvcils) location: courtyard of elaris keep

The young lord's willowy figure shifted in its seat with an air of arrogance and superiority; the winter bird he was, glorious against the pale moon, crowned in a sanctifying glow that spills down the length of his small shoulder in a cascade of white. "Well, look at you... don't you look like a painting of melancholy, all by your lonesome." he croons, deceptively sweet as usual; he hadn't asked to join him, his parasitic presence seldom asking for permission to worm its way in. He did not make a habit of conversing in public, alas, so long as it was not frequent enough he did not seem the harm. Best than to avoid entirely, that would be even more cause for suspicion. His parents would not approve, of course, but then again when had he ever asked for permission? Best to apologize later than risk being denied, it's what he thought.

Perching his chin atop his bony knuckles, the young Chae's clever eyes shifted periodically, always watching, studying, filing away thoughts for a later, searching for opportunity and leverage. Politics were a bore, but they a necessary evil. He was not such a fool as to think ignorance was bliss—ignorance was the slow, agonizing death of progress and civilization. If Nocturnia itself, in all of its ancient glory, was not proof of it, he did not know what could be.

"My dear friend," he invites intimacy, stripping away formality and titles, his tongue sweet and mellow as always. "What has you in such a foul mood? Do burden me with your thoughts."

[aenaos]

Where: Elaris Keep. Cian Garramoth's Quarters. Who: Lenore Kaelvorn & Cian Garramoth @prodigxlis & Sheng Nuwa @decthless

Heliophra shone with a beauty that seemed vulgar, like a garish necklace adorning a widow's neck. Its streets were lined in a dazzling array of white marble and gilded stone, curling vines and bright blooms dripping from trellises and balconies, all washed in golden light cast through intricately patterned lanterns and thick flame spilling from doorways, windows, and lamps. As the world teetered on the edge, as its scaffolding threatened to collapse atop their heads, the people sang and drank as if naught were amiss.

Lenore had watched the display through her carriage window, loose curls escaping from her pinned locks and clinging to her dampened forehead. Though her heart beat faster than usual, it was the warmth blanketing her that now cast her from cold effigy to mortal flesh. A fan brought some small reprieve, the only indulgence she allowed herself. The rest of her had been girded for war; her skirts pooled around her like a wine-dark sea, the maroon silk light enough to breathe, yet vivid enough to be remembered.

The time for hiding was past. The time had come for ablation—to cut away the vestiges of youth.

Lenore politely refused the refreshments offered upon their arrival, sidestepped greetings without giving offense, and let Morella accompany their aging parents to their assigned quarters. She made her way to her destination swiftly, her steps whispering across the stone, her composure so tightly strung beforehand no seam showed. When she arrived, she whispered only her given name—no titles, no ornamentation. She would take on whatever shape Cian required of her, whether that be close friend or distant Madonna; her name mattered only insofar as he called for it.

Lenore entered the room quietly, slipping through the doors. She spotted him immediately.

“Cian,” she said softly, lifting a hand, her unblemished palm upturned for him to take. “I am here.”

[prodigxlis]

Cian had been placed as high as Elaris’ Keep’s quarters would go, as one does with priceless porcelain on a wobbly cabinet top. Moonless nights brought out the shine of countless other stars, precious and blinking. Ignorance had been a misspent gift on Cian’s hands—he had not been able to rejoice on the marble upon marble, nor the hanging gardens or the lush walls of moss, not with his pettiness, not with the bitterness brought by his own childishness that followed him like his own personal rain cloud. That, too, had left quickly when grief arrived.

Now, looking down from the balcony was to look into that which was rare for being barren in Heliophra’s lands: miles of glass and gold, and underneath, past the clouds, harsh and merciless ground. The stardust was reaped from it like a farmer does spring crops and then turned deadly weapon, unbroken carapace. A good use for a fallen star.

At least if someone attempts to climb, it will take them a long while. And if someone attempted to listen, the wind would greet them. So it must be the walls. There is nowhere for me to go.

Estrella is in a golden cage and placed beside him. She chirps, desperate, when Lenore enters. The balcony has countless potted plants brought from beneath, both tall and low. Cian sits on one of the carved marble chairs laden with gold-threaded cushions, a blanket around his shoulders like a widow’s shroud. He does not turn to look at her as she arrives, not until she takes her place beside him. “Leonie.” He breathes, more than says. There are no tear-streaks nor obvious wounds, and his eyes are no longer the blood-pools of red they could be when he wept. It takes a moment for him to grasp her right hand with his left. An attempt of a smile follows, yet that falls back into stiffness, into the nothingness of his face. “Sit.” He turns back.

There is no more said for a long time. Silence beside her has a way to lack any soothing, but neither was it calm before her. When he finally speaks, it feels as if stepping off the edge. “I had wondered at when you would arrive.” He was waiting, despite there not being enough time. “There is something I must ask of you.” Cian opens his mouth again, only to stop. The sound of the door to his quarters opening then closing once more breaks past his words. The only betrayal of perplexity to his face is a flicker of a look, and then he seems as if haunted. The list of those he would allow is few, and those without notice, only two. It does not include his father.

He looks down, swallows, clutching the blanket like a lost child. The bled-through bandaged palm of his right hand pulls the thick cloth tighter.

@decthless

[decthless]

A shadow arrives to Heliophra in haste, draped in the darkness of the blackest nights; the neigh of its horse bringing terror with it, cleaving the crowds in two. Dust rises, cloaking his tall silhouette in a haze, like a nightmare summoned to life, the thumping beat of its heels a horror of its own as its feet touch the earth with all the mindless purpose of a bloodhound. It greets none, it stops for none, it only moves forward—without looking, without seeing—a whirlwind of sorrow. The looming-shadow of him stretches tall above all, its elusive shape gargantuan, swallowing the streets and then, the halls, swallowing all of the bright colors in its way without mercy, uprooting everything in its path as it heads towards them single-minded purpose.

The thunderous heartbeat of a stomping giant permeates the halls with restlessness and unease, and Heliophra, in all of its beauty, turns to a funeral pyre in the wake of him; heads snapping, fingers clutching, eyes wide with the fresh bloom of dread he evokes. He stops for none, faces and bodies blending into gray, dull masses, gasps and whispers blending into a cacophony of noise without meaning and without aim. He does not stop, makes no effort to linger, makes no effort to justify the death omen of his presence or cushion the apprehension it brings.

He meant to come earlier, but time would not stop for him.

Time, as it were, selfish and unkind, stopped for none.

He walks straight through the guards like an arrow, hand already gripping the door, disallowing any pleasantries; and when they threaten to come in his way, the look in the Nuwa's blood-red eyes suffice as a warning of what would happen to anything that tried.

The door opens—and the loud thumping comes to an abrupt end as it closes behind the straightness of his spine. The tall, terrifying thing stands there, rigid and unyielding, crimson eyes piercing through the inky blackness. "Lenore." he greets, the heaviness of it unsettling, the thick rasp of his cadence like bone against bone, meat scraped raw, dry and chilling; his eyes find her first—whispering, already, surely. Whispering, weaving, scheming in the dark. Then, they find him. Those large, familiar hands are on his shoulders before he can rise of his throne of sorrow, gripping, clutching. "Young Lord," the voice softens so, then, and all of his rage dies in his throat, all of those harsh demands of the night prior turn to ash on his tongue. Guilt flickers briefly, his mouth close to his temple with the desperate urge to soothe. Why have you done this? Why didn't you tell me? What are you doing? This cannot end well. "Forgive me." it is a fond, gentle whisper; a quiet supplication muffled against his skin, for him, to him; because all desire to be right had disappeared, exorcised out of his body as he was possessed with the urge to love him instead.

@aenaos

[prodigxlis]

closed starter for chae baeksa ( @decthless ) location: a private room in dawnmyre time: hours after sunrise cw: suggestive

Sunlight streams through the open window. Ruoxi had been spoiled rotten from birth, as oft was the case with well-loved children, more-so the ones whose merry scurrying could turn sudden stumbling, who would smile widely until they would worryingly not. And so in her room there had been built a seating alcove, protruding enough from the marble and stone that when the sun rose it would light up only than spot, and leave the rest in safer shadows. Ruoxi enjoyed napping there often, like a joyfully fat cat.

She is wide awake, now. Looking out, into the way the world looks when the brightstar is out. An oddity few can comprehend; distant and untouchable. But there were new traces of someone's touch on her again now. It did not comfort as it should've.

Sheets rustle and then the sound is followed by that of soft steps. She does not truly turn, not really, and cannot even muster a smile—even if she tries, and delivers a rather rueful curl to the corner of her bitten lips. “Does the little fairy desire round four? You really wish to boast to be the ruin of any mortal, do you not?”

[decthless]

The memory lingers where her warmth does not; soft-lit bodies writhing creamily under satin sheets, the shape of her hand and taste of her skin, his mouth open wide, gasping for air in wrecks of delirium as if to let go would destroy everything; when it was over his mind would stop spinning if only for a moment, and it was so quiet he wondered if that's what death fell like—she was never gentle with him. He thinks perhaps that was one of the things he liked the most—the underlying savagery of her. Baeksa was gone, unhomed of this loathed shell, and as peaceful as a child in his slumber. But it never lasted long. The silence is soon pierced by his restlessness, cold seeping back into his warm body as his feet touch the ground almost hesitantly, the soft rustle of sheets and hair whispering against the floor announcing his quiet arrival when the too gentle pitter-patter of his feet barely do. Sylph-like, he saunters to her like a haunting in the break of dawn; pale, waifish, a slip of a boy made of air and snow, draped in a winter that will not thaw.

"You're such a shameless girl..." there is a longing he will not name in him, an envy he will not recognize as he folds into himself, lounging by the edge of the shadows where the light nearly kisses, where the sun threatens to scrape the flimsy sheets loosely draped over his thin silhouette.

"Noona, close your eyes," the boy sing-songs, languid shape outstretched, unspooling in a small ripple of ivory on the floor of her bedroom like a discarded porcelain doll, much too delicate for such violent delights. "Pretend I'm somebody you trust," his voice floats to her like a white satin moth, gauzy soft, hoarse from all the involuntary noises she'd wrung from his pale throat. "Won't you tell me what's on your mind?"

[decthless]

Open Starter:  [ accepting 0/3 ]    Location: near a riverbed hehe

The faintest a chuckles fell from the little nymph's lips, infectious and syrupy-sweet, muffled by a palm quick to latch to his mouth as he rustled like a small animal through the dense greenery, the thickness of the woods surrounding the river, offering a sliver of privacy amidst the tribulations of late, which he, in his infinite boredom and desire to entertain himself, had deemed fit to violate—a wisp of pale hair moves amidst the evergreen.

He had waited, patiently, until they had properly disrobed and discarded their garments aside to sprout from the bushes, gathering all in his arms clumsily as he laughed—drunk in his own impishness, his fair eyes so mischievous as they caught a glimpse of him. He bit his lip, and in a haste, bolted; off into the bushes like a startled bunny.

[prodigxlis]

Cian wishes he could bottle his laughter, wishes he could cradle it to his ear and hear it again and again, like the seashells that echo the sound of the sea waves. “I shall take that as the compliment it must be.” Proud, nose upturned. Such happiness made him feel giddy, foolish, almost as if drunk despite not having a single drop of liquor on his tongue.

The smile that follows is mischievous, like a rather pleased cat that had gotten away with a pint of cream. “I must find my diversions somewhere, don’t I? Times refuse to be dull when you are with me, and so when you are not, it has to be corrected somehow.” He shrugs. “I suppose I could visit some of my other acquaintances, though they seem to be… Well. Some are missing, as of late.” He winces, both from the pain at the thought and at even bringing it up. It is enough to distract him, make him realize the implications of Sheng’s words almost too late. “Wait, do you mean—”

But there is little time to continue, even if the glint in Cian’s eyes betrays the fact that he would not let it go as easily as it seems. “I do not know what you mean.” He looks away, sheepishly, but the little flicker does not escape him. Cian feels himself dim like a candle against the wind; it is so easy to forget when with him. It is a blessing that Sheng changes the subject itself, for Cian had already found himself with the words stuck in his throat, and fear at being more trouble than it is worth lingering. He rushes to follow, almost stammers. “I shall hold you to it.” Just like many other things. Cian could be obedient or at least play at being it, if it made Sheng happy and relieved; can tilt his head, so that Sheng’s touch lingers for longer.

Cian waves the thought away, bites his lower lip and looks elsewhere. “Perhaps.” It would be good were that to be true. There are enemies everywhere, and with what was to come.. Cian fears for Nocturnia. To be able to turn many to his side through their esteem of him would be a great tool indeed. Yet Sheng’s displeasure with such matters was not one that he wants to evoke again. Losing himself in the pleasures of his company and shutting the rest of the world away used to be something Cian wished for with shame and greed, but now, he grasps at it greedily. There was softness only here, and only with him.

“You can be my assistant!” Cian perks up, suddenly as full of life as Sheng accuses him of being. “The greatest repositories of knowledge lay in Vallarion, of course, which is the whole other way, but Crownreach is a trader’s city—I’ll admit the hustle and bustle does not truly attract me much.” Cian flushes. “But there would be many-a-book there, that would rarely be found elsewhere. I shall teach you all that I know. I should’ve brought my own drawings—or even my own collection of dried blooms.” He stops, politely embarrassed from his own rantings, but notably relents before he apologizes. “You will regret giving me such liberties.” It is softly but surely said, and Cian hopes such eventuality takes many years to come yet.

“But do not worry,” He laughs. “There is much to do to allow myself to stay there. Plus you would have to stay with me, were I to go, wouldn’t you?” There is a pause, then, as Cian looks away and into the darkness outside the kitchen’s windows. Pitch black, a moonless night. “The distance seems endless from here.” Cian was too shy to ask if Sheng would feel the same, though his eyes peered curiously for an answer all the same.

“Yes, it would be great!” The enthusiasm was so easy to muster. Not so easy was the following words—Cian had shared his thoughts with Sheng many times unbidden, without notice of it; it was much harder to speak one’s mind purposefully and be entirely truthful. The meaning of truth even seemed to escape him, now, most days, easily malleable as it could be. “Sheer Castle doesn’t feel… It is… My mother is of great comfort to me.” He must sound so childish. “I mean, because of the way things loom these nights. The Castle is meant to be home, yet it has not felt as welcoming, nor as warm, despite her efforts.” Her soft touches, her gentle words. Encouragements and warnings both. “To have you there would lighten my heart a great deal. But—as I said.” The corner of his lips tilts, the grin rueful. “Only if you have time, and only if you are sure it will not bring you undue attention.” Cian could make concessions for greater gain, after all.

There is honest confusion in his features, a sort of perplexity in his voice. “Of course I would stay.” He shakes his head. It is this time that his touch reaches out—passivity versus action, the effort not to flush or flinch against the one to not shy away, to not let his own hand tremble as it extends—, fingers closing around Sheng’s hand. Squeezes. “You are more than reason enough. It goes both ways, you know.” Slowly, he lets go. “Maybe.” These lands, not being entirely cursed? Cian looks into Sheng’s eyes. “It brought you, after all.”

“They’re fools.” He shrugs. But all the better for me, he thinks treacherously. “You need not waste your time with them if they cannot see the gold of you for themselves.” Truly, Cian disliked Sheng being lonely, but he was there himself to aid with that. Lian was back as well, and though the thought of Lenore brought some odd irksome feel that usually did not accompany her good name, but he knew that she herself had her own paramour that she refused to name but had assured was not Sheng, so they could spend their own time together. That would be enough. Cian refused to think of more people—Even with Sheng’s constant reassurances, it was better to err on the side of caution. Not that Cian would do anything foul, just… Just… The thought of having even less time smarted, made him ill.

The memory of the bite is fresh still, just as the phantom feel of teeth on skin, stopped only by cloth bandages. But Cian’s hands are bare, now, and—and there is the grief again, the wish unfulfilled, when he is left bereft of any mark. It lingers longer than it did before, makes Cian’s cheeks redden again with the unspoken desire of it. “I already have.” Cian reminds him. He feels shy and obviously so. “But I’ll take another one. I brought a lot. Hopefully you can eat them thorough the time spent here, you won’t be lacking for a bit.” He takes another wedge to stop his own rambling, bites it and attempts to still the juice that wishes to spill. His own fingertips, where Sheng’s mouth had come so close, graze his lips—The tips of Cian’s ears turn red. He cleans some of stray drops off his fingers with kitten-licks, and then afterwards with a handkerchief. Surely a successful attempt at nonchalance.

They finish the pie speaking of everything and yet of nothing of note, and Cian’s heart feels lighter for it. Already he deeply regrets his promise not to come back unprompted, but perhaps they can do something like this as well, in Sheer Castle. And if not, Cian will simply have to convince Sheng to take him here again. Let Sheng’s words about Cian’s persuasiveness become true, then. “How long will it be in the oven, do you think?” He peeks into the heated brick, already impatient for it. “Should we take that tour now? You must have a library here, all great Keeps do—” He curls his arm around Sheng’s own, as if it were his right rather than privilege. “I should’ve truly brought my books, but as gifts. You would’ve liked them. Ah, well, I’ll just give you some when you come to Sheer Castle.” And if it was up to him, he’d give much more.

[decthless]

The admission is buried as quickly as it fell from his lips—he never returns to it, he lets it die; it does not matter in the grand scheme of things. It shouldn't, anyway. It was born of this urge he could not control to remedy whatever affliction he saw rising in the other—of the selfish desire to think he could. A man must be capable of enduring his pain alone, he had always thought—but when Cian stumbles he comes a-runnin', all thought and reason and consequence tossed to the wind like dust, he comes a-runnin', like a fox hearing a rabbit screams, only he cannot, will not do him harm. And he was a resilient creature, he was, he'd weathered many storm, and endured enough that nothing should touch him now, but a single glimpse into the hurt of those vibrant red eyes had him fumbling on his knees to assuage it.

He was a monstrous thing, meant to do monstrous things—you could not fight monsters being less than. But here, now, he did not feel monstrous at all. Not when Cian held his hand with such an unguarded devotion, not when he rambled on and on about the most innocent, foolish things. He deserved all that, to roam freely, and explore, and indulge in his books without the weight of the world on his shoulders. There was no harm in pretending it could be that simple, if only for a moment, was there?

His mother, he say—but speaks not of his father. And why was that? He wants to ask, but not yet; it is too delicate of a subject to be mishandled, he thinks. Perhaps later, during the tour. Does he not feel safe? Does he not feel loved? That can't be right, can it? Cian had been loved, every step of the way, this love had taken root into his very foundations, he couldn't be born of anything of love, with how warm, how gentle he was. Why was he feeling like this? What was troubling him? The urge to assuage scratches at the back of his skull again.

"You are our future ruling lord, young Garramoth. Your own survival is something of a priority," he leaned onto his elbows, letting the hint of a smile touch his lips. "Surely you do not think me so arrogant as to claim there would be a better use of my time than you?" well, he probably was; were said future lord anyone but Cian. His time was his to do as he wished.

So he nods, he nods and he smiles, and he escapes into those fantasies for a moment, and he agrees to every demand he makes, however gentle or unreasonable as they are, because isn't he entitled to this much? He could not justify denying him, not after all he's done for him.

"What they think of me is inconsequential," he admits, perhaps too candidly, to one who sits beside them. "If and when I am needed, I will do what I must do... council, or no council. It makes no difference to me." All that matters if what what you think of me, he does not say out loud for their improprieties already border on dangerous as they are, with the taste of him still on his tongue, imbibed in the sweetness of ripe peaches. He is no such a tame animal as to answer to a single owner, to be trained and lashed; and yet he'd allow for this boy's hand to make a makeshift collar around his throat, invisible as it were, he could feel it as tangibly as the thick texture of rope scratching against his throat, and he does not rash, does not ache for freedom.

If there was no threat, no undead, nothing to unravel or conceal, he does wonder, sometimes... if he could do nothing all day but sit here and watch him, would he? If he were to be honest with himself, he couldn't think of a better way to spend his time. If he had a will of his own, if he was more man than weapon, this is what he'd wish for.

When was the last time anyone had broken his composure like this? He's almost impressed, and embarrassed by how little it took him to do it. If he channeled this energy into their training, he'd be in big trouble. But he will not give him the satisfaction of admitting to it.

"We should have about an hour or so—" and then he stares in utter disbelief as the boy—whom he had repeatedly and tirelessly attempted to force into getting some rest, mind you—rushes to him, his arm ensnaring him in such a way you'd think he was a prized possession, meant to be grabbed and handled at whim. He cannot bring himself to correct him. The harsh words that so easily find his tongue are nowhere to be found. It was incomprehensible—what orbiting his gravity did to him. "...Very well, if you insist on wandering off," he finds himself in an agreeable mood, then, unexplainably so; the desire to roam these halls had not existed for him in so long, but perhaps Cian's company would make it bearable, as it did everything else. "Stay close... you're horrible at sneaking around." the demand is sharp and concise, but he makes sure to add something lighter at the end to soften the blow; he did not intent to let him roam free, however. For more reasons than one, but mostly because Cian seemed to have a horrible habit of injuring himself when left alone for long. The Lord's hand unceremoniously slipped deeper into his grip, slipping through the gap of his arm to circle around his back, demanding all of the weight to be leaned against him.

[prophcsy]

Valkan watched the delight spread across baeksa’s face with something quieter than amusement settling briefly at the edge of his own expression. faint. fleeting. “careful,” he replied dryly, the low cadence of his voice carrying easily beneath the wind. “you’ll start sounding proud of yourself.” at the mention of spectacle, the corner of valkan’s mouth curved again, this time sharper. “ah, of course,” he murmured. “how selfish of me not to consider the public disappointment my death would cause.” the untouched wine shifted lightly in his hand before he finally set the glass aside altogether, forgotten against the stone railing. “i’ll be sure to arrange something suitably tragic if the mood ever takes me.” then came the guessing. valkan’s attention settled fully on him again, more deliberate as baeksa built story after story from thin air and moonlight. he let him speak uninterrupted, though the faint narrowing of his eyes betrayed interest rather than how close he had been at first. by the time the other leaned forward expectantly, something almost resembling genuine amusement had finally surfaced beneath the exhaustion lingering around him. “terrible,” valkan answered at last, voice calm, though warmer now with restrained humor. “dramatic. wildly inaccurate. entirely too invested in my emotional state.” a small pause followed before his gaze flicked briefly toward the sea again. “though i admire the servant poisoning. at least that one had ambition.”

[decthless]

Careful. How he loathes that accused word; why did he ought to be careful? What good had it ever done him? Would he choke the life out of him if he stumbled upon a truth? So what if he did? "Would you rather be called repulsive?" teeth like daggers beneath the softness of his lips; a glimpse of his many faces flash through the mirrors of Valkan's eyes, brief and irremediable. That is a Baeksa, serpentine, foul, vile, searching for the smallest breach to coil itself around the slope of a neck—to smother with tenderness where it lacks strength, until it had morphed into agony before horrified eyes, yielding beauty like a cloak, a smokescreen for sainthood, so fragile and ethereal and doomed in his perch. What a joke. "I suppose I could lie convincingly enough if it pleases you so..." he croons, considering for a moment, his eyes flickering towards the untouched wine.

It's how adamant denial that had him pondering weather his forked tongue had stumbled upon a truth he wished would stay buried beneath the heath—it is like so for most, isn't it? What they hold most dear, they hold at a distance; if you wish to find it, search not for the thing their eyes chase after in a crowded, but the one they actively, relentlessly avoid looking at. He opts not to actively pursue, at least for the time being, gracefully admitting defeat.

"Aw... you're no fun. Won't you even pretend so I think I've won?" he jests with a doll-like tilt of his hair, shrinking beneath the curtain of his hair like a sparrow buried in a mound of snow. "What else should I be invested in when you're so openly gloomy, mm? Gloomy eyes, gloomy eyebrows... even your hair looks gloomy," a smile sprinkles some docility over his delicate features. "Beautiful people shouldn't be so sad, Valkan... it's a crime against nature, don't you know that?"

[etherealfairylee]

Felix for JAPAN SEASON’S GREETINGS 2026 “FORCE” Teaser Movie. [130925]

[springscngs]

a pause, silence settling long enough between the two to suggest ominous intent -- the young elarion was not easily affronted, but he did not mind having another believe that he was. a fraction of him enjoyed the power he wielded, in that regard, for many a noble would instantly kowtow to make amends -- baeksa, on the other hand, took his needling further. and for that, he had earned himself a bout of hearty laughter, and a good deal of respect. sycophancy did not hold cai's attention. sincerity did -- even if another sincerely disliked him. "good one, chae. boundless patience, near-boundless power, my lord father is a marvel and a mystery alike."

that his reputation preceded him amongst peers of his age, was hardly surprising -- cai did not seek his fun in inns thronged with commoners, where one might indulge and just as easily forget whoever had warmed his bed the night before. no, he preferred to let his gaze wander when he should be on his very best behaviour -- representing his house, at the courts of nocturnia. that bakesa would paint him a deviant as a result, sparked passing amusement. "they? who do i have to thank for spreading the word of my perversions, then?" he hummed, pressing a finger to where the pebble had hit him squarely, and narrowing emerald hues. "it doesn't take much coaxing, usually. but if you prefer to play coy, i will be sure to accommodate -- i shan't suffer a single complaint from my companions." a wry grin, donned with habitual nonchalance. "i'd prefer to be only partially soaked on my return. were i truly as unabashed as you claim, i would have disrobed entirely. but you see, i do care not to offend common decency."

the other rose to the challenge, and cai inferred from his reluctance, that it was more so to prove a point. "holding your own in the water doesn't require my physical vigour." spoken matter-of-factly as he quirked a brow at baeksa. "you can't swim, can you?" he did not object to the clasp of hands, since he had offered his assistance. "considering your life is to depend on my goodwill not to let you drown, i would refrain from threatening me. or aiming pebbles my way." they inched into the lake, and cai chose to take one bold stride forwards -- not breaking their link, but not dragging the chae along with him, either. "we don't have to wade all the way out, baeksa." it was a softly-spoken concession, kind -- almost. and then, his roguish grin returned. "not if you're too scared."

[decthless]

"Mm. Such a tall of a shadow..." to live under. Perhaps there was sympathy there, or simply curiosity; but he did often wonder, why is it every time comes across one of these bright-feathered Elarions they seem so eager to soar the heavens, backs hunched, smiles weary, with the posture of men who have spent the better part of a lifetime bearing the height of heavy chains and around their ankles and throats. It is rather tempting to see them—him, in cage. And on the other hand, he rather enjoys the mess they make while roaming free. How does that saying goes? Some birds are too bright... "How stifling." a light kick, sends tiny droplets of water sprinkle over the fresh grass and the young man's back, the rippling surface reflecting his morose blue eyes back at him. Such unhappiness. Why did they always seem so unhappy?

The gauzy softness of his lashes descends, feathering over the rosy kiss of color of his cheeks in gentle sweeps. "Who hasn't..." he hums, words flowing along with a long sigh, soft but loud, as if he wished to make his displeasure known. "My pointy ears are not just for show, you know..." pointed ears on display now, as his clawed fingers carefully tucks some of his hair away, in an effort to keep it from veiling his cheeks again.

"Tch..." he clicks his tongue in disdain at the thought, tempted to fold his arms like a petulant child. "Of course I can. Everyone can swim... you just move your arms and legs around like an idiot... how hard can it be?" Surely if he could feign interest in the well-being of others for so long, he could manage to do something as simple as swimming, no? And yet despite the confidence lacing his words, Baeksa dares not to let go—squeezing his hand reflexively. "I just... haven't had the opportunity before, is all..." a bold-faced lie, but what did he care? Truthfully, he's had plenty of time to learn, but never trusted himself not to flail and sink. He avoided deep bodies of water like the plague, and yet here he stood, in fear of injury to his pride.

How childish...

It was hardly fair. Everything looks harmless when your feet can touch the bottom.

"You gave me your word... I trust you will be a gentleman and keep it, won't you?" soft-spoken then, the young Chae tests him as much as he tests the water beneath his feet, wet, and cold, and utterly unreliable; he hopes the young Elarion will prove less treacherous than that, and him, for that matter. There is a subtle twitch of irritation he cannot contain, his pale brow creasing in betrayal of his passive nature. "I'm not scared..." he must refrain from snarling, urges himself not to as the corner of his mouth threatens to lift, flashing just a glimpse of a canine before it is once more hidden beneath the plush softness of his mouth. "Very well," he unties his sash unceremoniously, and the fabric ripples down the length of his body like a ripple of cold snow; he steps over it, the moonlight crowning him in its glow as he walks into the water with bated breath. He bristles, tugging at the Elarion with all a child's demanding, the silk his hair unspooling down the length of his narrow shoulders, floating at the surface in long, pale swirls that wrap around his sylph-like form.

[wanshangs]

the touch feels surprising enough to run a shiver up his arm, prompting the need to exert herculean effort not to flinch. it feels like lian can count by the fingers of one hand the number of times sheng has reached out to touch him willingly, if not for the last month. even then, it was due to his temporary blindness, although he did not want help in the slightest. it hurt more than any wound to see him like that —and the words exchanged continued to ring in his mind. bringing himself out of it, the youngest nuwa shrugs, raising the arm once injured, where burn marks are barely hidden by the sleeve. the fingers stretch out and then back into a lax fist, and he rolls the joint of his shoulder. "it's alright." the words are quiet as he looks down at his own hand, lips pursed for a few seconds. "it only aches sometimes." eyes dark and dewy, he does not mean the arm as the moment passes, shooting a brief look at his brother before he steps around him, moving toward the dummy. pulling at the sword strapped to his side, it leaves its sheath with a barely-there sound of cling. it's the same sword he has grown up with, one should feel like an old friend, but feels more like an ex. it's heavy in his hold, his dominant hand out of practice, as he rolls his wrist again, doing a trick with the sword where he rolls his shoulder again. it's slightly stilted, yet the renowned nuwa swordsmanship shines through despite the usual lack of finesse. "come on, will you do your worst?" lian lets out with a trace of a grin at the corners of his mouth, a faux demonstration of levity amongst them. as if most of their moments together aren't spent escalating to some kind of hurt between the two. sinking their teeth in, leaving torn flesh and residue. maybe, just maybe, they just need to fight it out — without words that continue to cut through, without the weight of disappointment that drags lian's every waking step. whatever low opinion sheng has of him, maybe he can work through it through this as well. lian is not foolish enough to think this will fix whatever it is between them — but maybe it would do sheng well to show once again how superior he is at this- with or without his strength. maybe it will stop him from looking at lian like the disappointment that he is. maybe winning will make him feel better? or the proof of lian's lack of talent will cause anger? lian doesn't know- but there is an unusual need within him to push. like an animal locked in a cage, trashing against its bars. turning around on his heel, lian hits the wooden dummy with the sword a few times, one of the tricks he learned young, forcing a prey into a corner, attacking left and right. a brief show of swordsmanship, before he turns back to face the older, head tilted. "i'm still a nuwa, you know —" pointedly does not think about the fact many wish he wasn't, including himself. including sheng. the smile is more grotesque this time, too pained to be a smile. "i'll hold up better than you give me credit."

[decthless]

He is skeptical—but for the sake of Lian's pride, his mouth opens and then shuts again; he wills himself to be silent and bite his tongue, for once. The creeping urge to bark that he knows better, and he should be more careful tingles on his tongue, but he owed him this much, didn't he? After everything. All those sleepless nights at his side, refusing to let him succumb into despair as darkness threatened to swallow him whole. He could not see his brothers face, but he could feel his warmth, sense his touch. He could still feel his face from when his eyes first opened in darkness and his hands reached forward unbidden, and the relief that had flooded him to know he was not lost, not gone; that his weakness had not cost him everything, after all.

"Alright," he settles for that instead—curt, simple, a vast understatement of what he really feels, but his face gives little away; he tries not to glance at the injury, the crippling guilt over his own failure completely undo him before his young brother, the last person he wished would peek into the wreckage behind the steely veneer of his posture and see him for what he really was—desperate, remorseful, and so deeply ashamed. How could he let it come to this? Again and again he had failed him, and again and again he continues to fail him—it seems as though no matter how hard he tries, his very existence had turned to an affliction. Was it selfish, then, to still want him, still need him in his life?

The wooden dummy wobbles, a poor replacement for a sparing match, and his effort to make ameds he nods solemnly, always so guarded, afraid his brother would see right through him as he used to before their years above solidified the distance between them, and made them forget how to be gentle towards each other.

"I know." Sheng reassures, his voice succinct, but almost gentle where his face as if smooths out the crease on his brow like wrinkles in an old garment, the cold indifference of usual settling—with just a hint of warmth lingering underneath. He would not be here, if it were not for him. It's not a lack of belief in Lian's abilities that had him shielding him from combat—it was love, and fear, both battling in the back of his head constantly and without end. But perhaps he had been unfair to him in doing so. He raises his arm, his sword, long sleeves rustling against the breeze as he positions his feet like a challenge and transforms before his very eyes into this graceful, deadly thing; the steadiness of his grip unyielding, the confidence of his stance a result of hours of relentless training. The blade extends ahead like an extension of his arm as he invites him to step closer, granting him the mercy of the first blow; he would do well to strike hard and not to waste it, for luck did not favor those who went up against him. The light streams from above, the moon like a watchful eye, perched high atop the gloomy skies in anticipation, overseeing the violent waltz of the brothers, its pale light catching on the polished steel of his blade and bouncing back into the crimson of his eyes.

[wanshangs]

the conversation is simple, exchanging words between houses, handing well wishes after the tragedy that occurred. it does not take too much out of haneul to offer false consolations, trying to pry further into the details that they are not aware of — when a familiar voice rings through the crowds. as if by sixth sense, the liege knows what to expect, and brings the conversation quickly to an end, as respectfully as time allows, with a promise to talk to the person more next time. luckily enough, no offense is taken as they are pulled away from their company, by their metaphorical sleeves. though, if they waited any longer, they know that could become reality. "baek-ah. i was talking to someone." their voice appears to be chiding, though there is little affront in it. the older is accustomed to their sibling's antics that they do not bat an eye. the words could perhaps prompt alert in someone else, one's younger sibling asking for help in such a desperate tone — but haneul knows him well enough to know when something is actually wrong, and when it is a trivial matter like this one. they hum at the options provided in front of them, and feign thought, as if they do not know the correct answer already. "which one? do you want hyung to choose?" amusement hard to hide, a side of haneul that people rarely see. with a small shake of their head, they turn to the vendor, and take out their wallet to pay. "we'll take both. please wrap them up."

[decthless]

That long swan neck turns towards the sound of their voice slowly, pale lids hanging dangerously low over the eternal winter trapped inside his callous eyes. "...So?" The young lord sing-songs in that way he does, so uncaring, syllables coated in apathy as he stretches his hand, observing his nails for the sake of it, subtly combative in its indifference, only softened as those gauzy lashes flutter their way, challenging them to explain who could possibly be more important than him.

Their sharp claws extend their way, feline-like and greedy, curving daintily over the bump of their shoulders; he shamelessly basks in the attention, feeling placated by their indulgence of his whims, made tame under the weight of their endless patience for his whims. "Mhm…" the younger Chae nods faintly, allowing something of a coy smile to settle upon the delicate arch of his lips, mirroring their own. "You know me best." it's always a challenge with him—they follow Haneul's gaze attentively as it shifts towards the vendor, squeezing their shoulder inadvertently as they address them, and letting an impish laugh slip from his tongue. "Haneul… you're no fun, you never let me play with you," he moves his knuckles to drag it against their temple just so, the gesture fond and unguarded, allowing for the moment of genuine to exist. "Thank you, hyung..." he croons bashfully, in that cloying sweet tone that implies docility as his arm already finds a way to entwine with theirs. A pause then, his large blue eyes flicker up at them inquisitively, blinking once, twice. "Don't you want anything for yourself?"