THEY HAVE SEEN MY STRENGTH FOR THEMSELVES. @florinamata - Tumblr Blog

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#SACRED GROUND WATERED WITH TEARS OF BLOOD | ABOUT

WHEN | THE MORNING OF APRILIS 11 WHERE | WISTERIA TRAINING GROUND WITH | @junocalidus

it was a common misconception—that the only god in the arena was the fighter that still drew breath at the end, that had managed to keep their sword hand held aloft. there had always been two gods—the fighter, and the routine the fighter kept before they set foot on the sands. a moment of clarity, of absolute control, before the body and muscle memory overwhelmed the mind, before the animal instinct to bare the teeth and prove yourself the better predator, the better survivor, took over.

for florin, it had once been about his armor—it had to be put on in a certain order, even early in his career when it had been cheaply made and incapable of stopping even the most blunt of swords. it was a kind of prayer—one word at a time, one piece of protection at a time, and after that was finished, it was up to the strength of the will, to unknowable thing that threaded itself through the sinews and marrow of the bones and separated the walking corpses from the ones that were bigger, somehow, than the simple act of combat.

it’s been years, at this point, since he took care in the act of strapping on the various plates—he finds the memory is becoming soft around the edges, as he holds two gleaming arm guards with the maximus symbols forged into them. had it gone left and then right? had he pulled the pauldrons over his shoulders first? he can only picture himself wearing all of the pieces—he can only picture the bringer of rain, instead of the king’s hound. no rain to wash away the red.

he lays the arm guards down on a nearby bench and exhales slowly, dragging his hands over his face before digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. when he opens them again, he catches sight of a familiar figure, assuming a familiar—not quite languid, but decidedly measured–pace through the training grounds, with an eye towards the arena. he wonders what a mind such as hers could be looking for, here among the rude mechanics of fighting, living, and dying–does she plan to test a new weapon, something even more dangerous than a finely crafted blade? is she there to support zeno, and her thoughts are somewhere in the ether of invention and reality?

he grins wolfishly and calls out after her, trotting slowly in her direction. “surely you aren’t here to see me, to present me with some finely crafted favor to honor you with–” he drawls, “which begs the question of what has drawn you from the depths of your laboratory on this fine day, ma’am.”

#WITH | JUNO CALIDUS #JUNO CALIDUS | THE SCIENTIST

shadowoftheforce

“The bringer of rain! The slayer of Theokoles! The champion of Capua! Stand up! I present to you: Spartacus!”

#FATE OFTEN TAKES A MAN FAR FROM HIS HEART. TO HIS REGRET | MUSE

vinnieinspos

APRILIS 13TH | DAY 4 OF THE CORONATION ANNIVERSARY | OUTSIDE OF THE ROYAL GROUNDS | OPEN

There were some things that Olivian had never been able to let go of in his time as a Smuggler. In fact if he met anybody he had known from his previous life they may say he had attached himself even more to the material trappings of life than he had when he was younger. That was probably true. He’d had so much to worry about back then he hadn’t been able to appreciate things like nice well fitted clothing, or parties. Or mixing those two things together with something as novel as a mask to top it all off with. This was all to say that Olivian was very much looking forward to the last day of these festivities and the Masquerade Ball that was coming with it.

Very much.

It was likely no surprise that during the fifth day of the coronation anniversary while everybody was out doing their last minute shopping, and getting ready for such a grand fanciful event so was Olivian. In his own way. He had done his own shopping ages ago. Options for an Outfit and Mask to hide his face had been picked out nearly on the first day. All he needed to know was what was the décor the Maximus Clan were going with for the evening, so he knew how to match it. Olivian couldn’t let himself assume the colors, and theming. Though he expected it to be … Well, let’s just say he did not see the group as the most tasteful, or fashionable. So, he needed to find out for himself. He didn’t want to clash with the curtains, did he?

Olivian found himself wandering the royal grounds to check things out for himself. Getting a peak at the Great Hall, as he wandered among the staff and servants working later into the night. At some point he even found himself in the kitchens seeing if there were any fancy foods laying out, but mostly things were only being prepared, so he left empty handed.

He decided if he had been in charge, he could do better. Nothing revolutionary.

Having satisfied both his curiosity and the necessity to know what colors he could get away with wearing the next night, Olivian strolled from the Castle onto the grounds to leave, taking a breath of the cool night breeze as he went. Walking as confidently as one would if they owned the place. If only, some might say. (Him, he was ‘some’). But that was the key to be where ever you wanted to be without pesky rule abiding types questioning you, and what you were doing. That was “Being Where you Shouldn’t Be 101”. Pretend like you were supposed to be there and most would leave you be. Most.

It did not always work when you had a name and a reputation like he did, but most people left him alone.

florinamata

time, florin has decided, is only a luxury to those who are familiar with the term and its trappings. to people who have never before had it, who have become used to having every second of it filled with the grimy and unremarkable minutia of staying alive another day, suddenly being in possession of grand silken threads of time is nothing but a curse. after taking up residence in the castle, florin has gained an utterly painful awareness of each minute that slowly circles the drain, that unfurls slowly towards a horizon that promises nothing–of all of the things he could be doing to draw his attention elsewhere, that the gilded ball and chain around his ankle, around the hilt of his sword, prevents him from doing.

there is only time, relentless minutes that turn into languid hours, that turn into days and weeks where the energy that had once seemed so much like a gift, a divine destiny to honor, builds inside of him until it burns to heavy black ash, another dead thing for him to carry around inside of himself.

he’s done his best to keep himself alert–to keep the hound’s teeth sharp and ready for display at the master’s bidding. pax is only too happy to elaborate on whatever it is he’s reading at the time, he’s a familiar sight to those on the training ground and in the armory, where he’s taken and re-taken stock of the potential threats to the king’s life inside of his own home, and his mental map of the castle is extensive and often travelled–these things were all designed to work without fail, to be rotated when boredom began to seep in around the edges.

they were all designed to work when there were people that could be drawn from their tasks, when each familiar twist and turn of brickwork wasn’t dressed to impress even the lowliest eyes. they were designed to work when the blood in his mouth wasn’t fresh, when the heart in his chest beat dully instead of wildly against the cage of his ribs. today his rounds are restless, today he’s having a difficult time getting the gaping maw of want for something to close its jaws. today, this interloper he’s had his eye on since he glided out of the doors of the kitchen into the castle grounds, is going to wish that he had picked a different day to try his hand at–well, whatever it is he’s trying his hand at.

florin is waiting for him in the shade of a tree, draws his sword with the point grazing the skin of a pale and noticeably unmarked neck. not likely to draw, then. pity. “pretty sure you read the invitation wrong, mate.”

#WITH | OLIVIAN CONSUS #OLIVIAN CONSUS | THE SMUGGLER

WHEN | APRILIS 11th, BETWEEN ROUNDS OF THE KING’S TOURNAMENT WHERE | WISTERIA TRAINING GROUNDS WITH | @valerianfuria

it’s a heady feeling, to be brought back to life so suddenly, so violently. to be reminded that the body he still inhabits had stalked the sands of the arena like a god–that once, before zeno maximus was ever a glimmer in his father’s eye, a distant thought in his brain, people had whispered that the strength of his bones, the blood that beat his heart into frenzy, had golden strains of ichor running through it.

to know that it will only last for as long as he can keep the dance going, keep the people in the stands gasping for breath, keep his opponent looking towards the sky and praying that they don’t glimpse rain.

he can’t decide, if he would rather have the memory of this carved out of him by the sharp edge of the sword, or if this slow bleeding that will start the moment the sun rises tomorrow, the moment he lays himself down at the feet of the king like the devoted hound he is, is the kinder option.

he refuses to let that matter, here and now–right now he is aware of every sound, every sad excuse for a farmhand that thinks they know how to swing a sword, of the weight of the sword in his hand as he swings it in arcing circles to loosen the muscle in his shoulder. he is aware of the ram-rod straight spine of the woman who attempts to stalk past him, before she ever becomes aware of him.

“back so soon, commander?” he says airily, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “i’ll admit, i thought the bonnaire girl would put up more of a fight than that.”

#WITH | VALERIAN FURIA #VALERIAN FURIA | THE COMMANDER #bitch behavior florin!!!!

godsopenwound

Romeo Oriogun, "On the 23rd Death Anniversary of My Father" from Sacrament of Bodies

#FATE OFTEN TAKES A MAN FAR FROM HIS HEART. TO HIS REGRET | MUSE

WHEN | APRILIS 13TH WHERE | LOVETTE’S THEATER WITH | @jinxdecimus

over the course of the last three acts that have graced the stage with their quote unquote talents, florin has slowly, so agonizingly slowly, been made aware of each and every ache that is currently lingering inside of his muscle fibers. his right knee aches from so much standing around, every high note has caused him to clench his jaw and feel like each of his teeth is being rooted in place by the pointy end of a knife, and each movement of his neck as he turns his head to survey the room pulls the muscles in his shoulders too tightly, like an out of tune string instrument. he does not wince, does not draw in a harsh breath through his teeth—and yet he’s sure, as he watches zeno relax into his seat further, fold one leg over the other, that the boy is aware of his suffering somehow, and that this fact alone supersedes any pain that he himself might currently be feeling.

florin only barely resists the urge to roll his eyes and walk out—he’s certain that what passes for talent inside of this theater is enough to deter any potential assassin—when he catches a glimpse of a figure, slight and barely noticeable without the usual purpose and determination powering its movements, when he watches the familiar face of the king’s prized assassin settle into his periphery. less of the distraction he had been imagining, and more of an opportunity as ripe for the picking as any of the fruits that populate the merchant stalls outside.

she holds herself differently than the queen—never with the relaxed poise of a noble, always coiled tightly as if anticipating a blow. a warrior’s pose—or perhaps the stance of one burdened with the weight of another’s secrets and shames, a peculiar and particular pain that weighed on the body like stone—a familiar pain, that lingers just beneath the surface of his skin as he slowly moves around the edge of the theater to come to lean against the back wall next to jinx decimus.

“the queen excused herself a while ago,” he says casually, with a shrug of one shoulder. “if you’re looking for her that is. if you’re in the mood for real theater i would still strongly encourage you to look elsewhere for it—on behalf of those of us who have no say in the matter.”