[inherentkaos]

can i not grasp them with a tighter clasp?

can i not save one from the pitiless wave? is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream? selective and independent multimuse ─ ( low activity! ) this blog deals with dark and mature themes, user discretion is advised. 01. CROSSROADS incl. guide, characters & prompts , 02. ♡

[frenzie]

for one so beloved by sunlight, blessed to carry it within his form wherever feet may carry him, the night is a welcome friend. cool and quiet, much different from the busy days behind and ahead. godwyn likes to wander, then. through an earth stilled, only rustled by its native inhabitants and the occasional breeze that graces it. there is one noise preferrable over the natural quiet of night ; the company of one so dearly seen. he almost rivals the glow of the grand erdtree itself as they wander through the garden.

until he stops to listen for the rustle once more, there are a few steps seperating them. they seem abyssal and endless, though this is an issue the prince has to sort out with himself. it is not something to concern such a regal guest with.

a bird is hardly a creature godwyn would title as dreadful. they are small visitors, innocent in their intent. some look for food, others for materials for their own home. he quite enjoys watching them & usually they still come nightfall. he mentions it moreso to his surprise to witness a chirp this late. delightfully so. there are those worth worrying for ; he's seen them with his own eyes. this little visitor, however, is hardly of the kind. ruffled as its feathers might be, it bears not the power to disrupt the ease of their walk.

❛ my lord . . . ❜ he repeats, gentle in his tone, though it carries alongside a chuckle. he knows, in both heart and soul, that it is not a title of class. he would still prefer his name to be granted the honor of moving across his company's lips. ❛ are we not of equal footing, dear fortissax ? even as you walk upon but two legs ? ❜ there is power in a name & he braves spoken intimacy beyond just that. fortissax' statue might be much smaller than the space he normally commands. grand and regal, as any ancient dragon. still, he stands above godwyn - one who is not of the short sort either. any form of his appearance is a balm for a weary soul, admittedly.

a hand settles upon his own chest. it is endearing, the vigor with which fortissax seems to want to keep the peace. the extend, however, seems quite unduly. ❛ i must ask you to refrain, even if it proves to be a most dreadful guest. i am oh, so, fond of the life breathed into the garden beyond my own presence. ❜ he speaks of birds no longer. eyes, as golden as the sun itself, move aside. they follow the shape of fortissax' shoulders for but a moment, before they settle on a familiar face. the small intruder, still angry at its seemingly massive issues with the greenery, seems forgotten.

where fortissax remains, godwyn takes half a step towards his company. not too close, never too close in the possibility of guardsmen's prying eyes. but close enough that the distance allows his voice to carry more quietly and still be heared. ❛ speaking of guests. i am most pleased you could make it. ❜ he speaks of their time together as if it has not, by now, become a habit. bi-daily or nightly meetings are more commonplace than staying apart. even in busy times, even in times where golden hair is once more hidden by the helm of a conqueror. ❛ i trust, your being here is not keeping you from more important meetings ? ❜ the smile he gives is near challenging, the question itself more musing than an actual question. he knows that fortissax would have made the time, as would he. it is an unspoken truth between them. given that no catastrophy keeps them from one another.

[inherentkaos]

dread ancient dragon. lord of red lightning. names earned through destruction, violence, and fear upon the battlefield. he bears them all with a certain preference. they carry their own character. they are conflicts breaking against one another, where one looks up and calls terror divine. but from godwyn's mouth, his name is a hand laid upon the old wound of his being.

fortissax keeps his gaze upon the laurel hedge for a moment longer, though the foolish creature within it has become the least of his trials. the bird rustles, indignant and alive, somewhere among the leaves. a feather drifts loose, pale against the dark green, and the fountain continues its soft silver speaking. night gathers upon the garden in layers. damp earth. white flowers. gold light from the palace windows, thinned by distance. the warm ghost of sun still lingering in stone.

───his human form feels all of it too keenly.

the air upon his throat. the pulse beneath his jaw. the nearness of godwyn like heat without flame. where eyes may pry, and tongues may shape their beauty into accusation. so close that the world alters around fortissax. close enough that he knows, with an ancient creature's dreadful certainty, that there are distances measured not by steps, but by what the heart is forbidden to cross. ❝ equal footing, ❞ he repeats, and the words leave him with a low, thoughtful gravity. ❝ you speak boldly, prince of gold. ❞ eyes rest upon godwyn's face with a devotion too quiet to be harmless. lightning may split the heavens, but this is the force that frightens him more: the soft command of being seen.

❝ in war, mayhap. in oath, assuredly. in the esteem of my own heart… ❞ his mouth stills, as if the words have come too near to greed. ❝ there, i fear, you have long held the higher ground. ❞

( the confession settles between them, low as incense smoke. )

every arch may frame a witness. every shadow may keep the shape of a servant, a guard, some pious fool with a mouth full of duty. fortissax has seen kingdoms sharpen themselves upon rumour. he has seen love made into weakness by those too hollow to know its strength. so he stands where restraint places him. near enough that the warmth of his borrowed body recognises another presence. far enough that reverence may pass for courtesy. ❝ yet if you would have your name upon my tongue, ❞ he says, softer now, ❝ then i shall not deny you, godwyn. ❞

the garden seems to lean closer. the name moves through him like sunlight laid across ancient scales. once, he had known the golden prince as an enemy's heir, a radiant impossibility upon a war soaked in red lightning and auric fierceness. then godwyn had stood before him. not untouched by war or innocent of power. but open, steady, brave in a way that had not needed cruelty to prove itself true. fortissax had bent, and had not been diminished.

even now, in this slight and mortal-seeming shape, he feels the echo of that surrender. a storm pressed into the form of shelter.

❝ your mercy is vast indeed, to spare so clamorous a trespasser ❞ his mouth curves faintly. ❝ i shall obey. no lightning shall be called down upon your feathered guest, dreadful though its campaign against the greenery may be. ❞

a few leaves fall from the hedge. one lands on his shoulder. he glances at it from the corner of his eye, grave as a king faced with an omen, then lifts it between two fingers. the leaf is small, damp, delicate, its green veins bright beneath the shine. in his true form, it would scarcely have registered. in this body, it rests with an absurd and perfect weight. the world has become full of such things. petals that bruise. shared breaths. voices that undo him. hours that are not battles and yet leave him marked.

❝ as for more important meetings, i know of none. no summons draws me hence from you. ❞ the words are bare. a dragon may show his teeth before a thousand spears and feel less exposed than this. he draws a slow breath, and with it gathers the scattered edges of himself. the faint light beneath his skin stills. the human mask settles. his hands fold behind his back to deny them any foolishness. ❝ save catastrophe, and even then, i should think poorly of any catastrophe so ill-mannered as to choose this hour. ❞ the path curves beneath cypress. white blossoms lean from shadowed beds. far above, the erdtree's golden boughs seem less like a sovereign presence and more like a lamp held by some patient deity over a secret meeting.

❝ what life would you show me? for i confess, upon two legs, these garden paths trouble me more than the skies. oft have the lesser things escaped my eye. ❞

[neanmoins-que]

[inherentkaos]

@frenzie ♡

[inherentkaos]

(#𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔱.) ¦ * ❝ you don't want to be seen with me. ❞ @atlastatlast's MOLLY MILLIONS !

so mi has already paid for two bowls. two chipped ceramic bowls to be exact, steam breathes up through the narrow stall window, broth dark with soy and oil, spring onion cut too roughly, and noodles going soft because neither of them has touched them ( yet or will ever ). a ticket between so mi's fingers with the number thirteen printed in red. the market is almost empty at this hour. metal shutters rattle as vendors unlock them. a man washes blood from a fish board with a hose that leaks at the handle. somewhere, crates of artificial fruit hit concrete with a dull, wet thud. frying garlic, exhaust, other cut herbs, and electric heat rises to the cables overhead them.

no encrypted dead drop. no stolen car idling in an alley. no safehouse with damp walls and a pistol under the mattress. just a noodle bar before dawn, cheap and ugly enough not to be staged. a place where people sit, eat, leave, and probably forget each other the moment they get up from their seats.

molly stands half in shadow and so mi's gaze finds its way to the empty stool beside her. ❝ i didn't invite you here to hide you. ❞ she sets the ticket down. the paper now crumbled, a victim of her drifting mind. ❝ i invited you because the broth here is terrible after five minutes, and i thought maybe you'd complain about it. i wanted to listen. ❞ the neon sign above the counter flickers through three broken characters. it catches in molly's mirrored lenses and gives so mi nothing back but light cut into pieces.

the blackwall sits at the back of her mind tonight like deep water under ice, not breaking through. she feels it when she blinks too slowly, while the city watches them in all the dumb, hungry ways. bad angles, through washed-out footage. faces half turned and a static bloom. the scene is simple: just two individuals at a noodle stall.

[inherentkaos]

hello friends !! i have a new url wow ! NOCTVOID → INHERENTKAOS

[inherentkaos]

there's something truly liberating about jumping on a trampoline to darude sandstorm !

[witchiestwitch]

If you were not dead and I was not corrupted

[frenzie]

@noctvoid

[frenzie]

∗ 22﹕ sender  finds  receiver  [ injured / bloodied ] . for fortissax & godwyn wouldn't it be ridiculous if this was set on the night of nights AH HA HA HA

usually, someone half god, half man, does not shed thoughts on the mere idea of dying. usually, he remains uninterrupted on his way out the door & usually, wounds bleed. everything that unfolds within the chambers of the golden prince happens fast. quiet and quickly, assassins are upon him, as is their nature. they remain unseen, no sentry to herald their arrival. it takes half a dozen of them to overpower a struggling godwyn but they win out in the end. held like a common sacrifice, the shattered piece of death seeps deeply into his flesh.

there is no pain, much to godwyn's surprise. he's seen life ebb and taken just as many by his own hands. enemies, victims, collateral, they all struggle and writhe upon their last breaths. he does not. it's cold, bitterly so. no blood to speak of from a wound this fatal & all at once his body stops obeying his mind. the icy tendrils of death snake through every fiber, making their home in every gap not filled by light. as his form collapses, the aggressors disperse. their job is done and he will be discovered long gone. though, not all of him is ripped into the abyssal nothingness of unexistence. his mind stays put, tries to claw itself back into his limbs, to elicit a noise when not even breath will fill his lungs anymore. this situation is unknown as much as it is unwelcome. a demigod should not concern himself with the common threat of dying.

but he knows the sound of thunder down the hall. footfalls he'd recognize admidst a marching army. a great dragon compressed into a form much too small to be beholden of all he is. right. they were supposed to meet tonight, weren't they ? his absence surely must have alarmed the great fortissax. with flesh unheeding of his will, eyes do not move towards the door, rather, they stay where they are. half closed, sideways, dead ahead towards the foot of his bed. the yawning darkness of whatever dust has made its home under it, barely noticable in the low light of candles.

the noise stops & he wonders if he is now too far or if the other is already upon the scene. there is absolutely nothing. no more footsteps, no breath, no voice. as much as godwyn wills his own vocal chords to obey him, they do not. the body is withering, the rest of him trapped within.

[inherentkaos]

the door opens before fortissax even becomes aware that he has raised his hand, that he has chosen to unveil this sight to himself. the door yields without making a sound. perhaps it has been open all along; this chamber has never hidden itself from him before. candlelight beckons at the edge of the threshold, yet this time it twists at his innards and drags them down into an abysmal darkness. for one breath, he is not ancient. not a storm. only a being halted by the sight of what should be impossible. godwyn lies on the floor. a deep, ghastly wound stretches across his back, and black ichor oozes out of it. the room is colder than usual around him. it gathers in the folds of godwyn's garments, under his hair, at the stillness of his mouth. the candles are vulgar for still burning.

❝ godwyn. ❞

the name leaves him softly. too softly for what it has endured. he crosses the chamber. each step is careful, and that is the first horror. some part of him still believes carefulness has meaning in this moment. still believes there is a way to move through this room that will not break the body that has already been shattered. marble cools beneath his knees when he falls beside godwyn, and a fine crack travels outward from the pressure of his grief. his hands hover. they have killed. they have torn through dragonscale and armour. they have held red lightning until the skies split open. now they tremble before the simple act of touch. even these human fingers seem monstrous beside such stillness.

he reaches for godwyn's wrist, and fortissax inclines his head, by a little. enough that his hair falls forward. enough that the golden light catches along the dark strands. it would never reflect on him in the way it did on godwyn. ❝ no, ❞ refusal, thin as breath. his fingers move up to godwyn's hand and close around it. the shape is known to him. by memory's quiet theft, piece by piece. a hand once lifted in greeting beneath the erdtree's long light. a hand near his own in the garden, close enough to undo him, far enough to survive the eyes of others. a hand that had never needed to touch him to leave its print upon him. now it rests in his, disconnected; he traces the ghostly lines.

it swans closer. his thumb presses once against the knuckles, small and helpless, as if some hidden door might open beneath the gesture. beneath the cold, beneath the terrible wall of flesh, there is a wrongness that does not settle. something remains caught where it should not remain. the shape of godwyn is here, and not here. a lamp with its flame stolen away, yet the glass still holds the phantom of a light. fortissax's breath catches.

❝ you are not wholly departed. ❞ the words are quiet. almost afraid to be true. he leans nearer, listening with more than ears. the old senses rise beneath his skin. they seek the pulse of a soul as they usually seek thunder in the cloud's dark belly. they find fracture. a rift where the world has opened its mouth and failed to finish what it began. death has not taken him cleanly. a gentler grief might weep. his does not know how. it gathers beneath his ribs until the borrowed bones ache with holding it. lightning stirs along his forearms, pale and soundless, then dies before it can become hurtful. there is nowhere to strike. no throat to close his hand around. the shadows have fled. all that remains is the beloved, and the promise fortissax did not keep.

a small foolish thought kept hidden in the inner walls of his heart. perhaps godwyn would smile. perhaps godwyn would speak his name again, and fortissax would bear it, fiercely, without flinching. he had been almost here. ❝ i did not linger, ❞ though no one has accused him. ❝ i turned aside for no one. ❞ his grip tightens. ❝ and still i come too late. ❞

fortissax bends, his forehead nearly touches godwyn's. ❝ hear me, if any part of you yet remembers my voice. i am here, godwyn. ❞ the name is not guarded now. no courtiers are needed in this room, no measured distance, no careful title placed like a veil over what cannot be revealed. here, fortissax just sinks into the ruin of his oath. he draws godwyn's hand against his chest. his heart beats. mortal in rhythm, beastly in anguish. ❝ you were to meet me beneath kinder light. ❞ all the agony that cannot fit through language finds shelter in the clenched corners of his mouth. something scaled passes the skin at his throat. his eyes, when they open, are bright with stormlight, but his hand remains gentle around godwyn's. he looks to the mark where death has entered. he does not touch it. some instinct, older than reason, forbids him. so he watches it. and suffers.

❝ whose hand has wrought this? what craven god, what faithless kin, what blade born of night has dared it? ❞ and the old dragon learns the shape of helplessness in a man's body. the knees. the hands. the bent neck. the terrible smallness of being near enough to hold and too late to protect.

❝ i swore it to you where none else heard, save my own heart. if that heart must be spent to keep what remains of you from darkness, then let it be spent. let it be torn and ruined. ❞

he gathers godwyn closer by a fraction, still careful, still reverent, as though cold flesh may become brittle from sorrow alone. he can dwell at the threshold of this half-death and bare his teeth at the dark beyond it. he can proclaim, again and again, until what is trapped within godwyn knows that it is not abandoned. ❝ if you cannot return to me, i shall go into the night and seek you there. ❞ his hand closes more firmly around godwyn's. ❝ only do not leave me with silence. not ever. ❞

[inherentkaos]

(#𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔱.) ¦ * ❝ blood's not going to come out of that sweater. you should just throw it out. ❞ @tremaynes' FIONN TREMAYNE !

riot looks down. the sweater is ruined. fionn is right about that. the cuff is stiff where it has dried, darker at the wrist, soaked through in places where someone else's blood has reached the seams. riot rubs their thumb over the edge of the stain. parts of it flake beneath the pressure. ❝ yeah. probably. ❞ the corridor around them keeps operating. monitors beep behind half-drawn curtains. shoes squeak over the floor. someone cries behind a closed door, the sound pressed into their own hands. the ambulance bay doors open somewhere down the hall, and cold air slices through the emergency department. or is this their imagination? riot's shoulders tighten before they can stop it. today's tense and every inch of their body is on alert.

the sound is not tyres on ice. not metal folding. not their brother’s breath turning shallow beside them.

it is just doors. just doors. this is a different time. they let their hand drop from the sweater.

❝ it's not mine, ❞ riot adds after a second, because that feels like it matters and does not matter at all, actually. ❝ the blood, if that's what you're wondering. i'm fine. ❞ are you hurt? did they hurt you? did you hurt them? where is the weapon? who else is inside? everything reduced to boxes to be ticked, statements, the chain of custody. riot lives inside the shape of it. they keep their authority folded small, tucked close to the ribs. ❝ my sergeant will tell me i escalated, ❞ riot says. there is no humour in it, but something close to a laugh, buried and airless. ❝ then he'll tell me i took too long to act. somehow both. ❞

everyone breaks in public sometimes. riot stands in the middle of it, again and again, keeping the line from snapping while their own hands have learned to quake only when no one watches. dried blood pulls at the skin beneath their sleeve. they should wash it off and file the report. ❝ you ever keep something you know you should get rid of? ❞

[inherentkaos]

(#𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔱.) ¦ * ⁽⁽ did you hear that? ⁾⁾ @frenzie's GODWYN THE GOLDEN !

he hears the slow bright breathing of the erdtree through stone and root and buried vein. he hears the banners of leyndell pulling softly at their golden pins, each thread whispering against the night. he hears armour below, far beneath the balcony, where sentries shift their weight. he hears the river beyond the walls. he hears the small, mortal labour of his borrowed body, the pulse at his throat, the fragile bell of breath in his chest.

and beneath it all, he hears godwyn.

not merely his voice. not merely the fair shape of sound when it leaves him. fortissax hears him as thunder hears the mountain. as the ancient sky hears the first spear of lightning break from its womb. there are souls that pass near one another and remain strangers. there are souls that strike once, deep, and ring for ages. his flesh is too small for him, too warm, too easily marked by air and moonlight. beneath the skin, something vast remembers scales, something winged folds itself with care, lest it break this tender cage.

a soft, foolish clatter from the laurel hedge. then silence. then another rustle, followed by the faintest offended chirp. fortissax's mouth stills around a flicker that might almost become a smile.

⁽⁽ aye, ⁾⁾ he says as though answering a council of kings. ⁽⁽ i hear it. ⁾⁾

he steps no closer than he must. the garden is caught in an evening between two heavens. moths tremble near the lanterns. the fountain speaks to itself in bright fragments. petals cling to the wet stone like little moons fallen from their proper place.

he does not look at godwyn at once. there is a softness in him that becomes perilous when turned towards that face. a devotion so complete it frightens even the dragon who had known war before the golden order learned to gild its promises. godwyn is sun to many. prince, heir, beloved of the capital, balm laid upon old enmities. to fortissax, he is more courageous than light.

the hedge stirs again. fortissax inclines his head, solemn as a priest before an altar.

⁽⁽ some dread creature besets thy royal garden, my lord. ⁾⁾ the title is not distance but devotion given form. words carry thunder's depth, but no threat. only warmth, hidden carefully beneath the old grandeur of his tongue. he looks to the leaves, where a round, dark shape shifts among the branches and fails entirely at secrecy. a bird, perhaps. young, clumsy, puffed with outrage at the world for having made twigs so difficult. one of the palace doves, or some small garden thing that has not yet learned the difference between flight and falling. fortissax knows something of that. ⁽⁽ fear not, i shall strive not to call down lightning upon it. ⁾⁾ a pause.

⁽⁽ unless it prove most discourteous. ⁾⁾

fortissax turns then towards godwyn's side. near enough to shield. not so near as to presume. he has learned the shape of reverence in this smaller body.

[do-re-memes]

— nighttime ; prompts & sentence starters.

a mixture of scenarios and dialogue for nighttime shenanigans. tw for mentions of alcohol, substance usage, and suggestive themes.

( SCENARIOS )

[ BUZZ ] - our muses are drinking and / or getting high on a rooftop.

[ CAMP ] - our muses are camping in the woods, telling ghost stories by the fire, when they suddenly hear something scary.

[ CONCERT ] - our muses attend a major pop star's concert and fan out.

[ DANCE ] - our muses go out clubbing and start dancing up on each other.

[ DIM ] - our muses make cocktails and slow dance in a dimly lit kitchen at 11pm.

[ DINER ] - our muses decide to hit up a diner at midnight and order breakfast.

[ DRINK ] - our muses meet up for drinks at a lowkey bar.

[ DRIVE ] - our muses are on a late night road trip and have to make a pit stop somewhere questionable.

[ EMPTY ] - our muses explore an abandoned building and almost get caught by [pick: security / squatters / other explorers / something else].

[ FRESH ] - our muses decide to sit outside one of their homes for fresh air and a meaningful conversation at 1am.

[ GAME ] - our muses stay up until 4am playing video games in the living room.

[ GRAVE ] - our muses explore a cemetery / graveyard and find something spooky.

[ HAUNT ] - our muses explore a location that is notoriously haunted and have a paranormal encounter.

[ HIDE ] - our muses are hiding out together in [pick: the attic / the bathroom / a closet / the garage / somewhere else] at a party they didn't want to attend.

[ HIKE ] - our muses are hiking along a new trail and find something interesting / odd after getting lost.

[ MASK ] - our muses attend a masquerade (or some other masked event) and unknowingly become dance partners.

[ PLAY ] - our muses have fun at a playground at 1am.

[ RITUAL ] - our muses conduct a [pick: cult-like / pagan / satanic / spell] ritual deep in the middle of a forest.

[ ROOM ] - our muses are deliriously sprawled out in one of their bedrooms at 5am after talking all night.

[ SHINE ] - our muses are laying on a blanket in the grass and stargazing.

[ SHORE ] - our muses attend a bonfire party on the beach and wind up talking and walking along the shore until sunrise.

[ SNACK ] - our muses make a 1am snack run to the nearest corner store / gas station.

[ SNEAK ] - our muses are caught sneaking in or out somewhere (alternate: sender may catch receiver, or vice versa).

[ STUDY ] - our muses spend the evening [pick: studying / training] and accidentally get locked in the [pick: grounds / gym / library / school].

[ SUMMON ] - our muses play with a ouija board (or similar tool) at 3am and get scared by themselves or something worse.

[ SWEAT ] - our muses are laying in bed together post-coitus.

[ SWIM ] - our muses sneak into the community pool for a late night swim.

[ VENUE ] - our muses drink and get rowdy at a rock show in a small venue.

[ WALK ] - our muses take a late night stroll around the neighborhood / town / city.

[ WET ] - our muses skinny dip in a lake / pond once the sun starts to go down.

( DIALOGUE )

❛ it's hard to see the stars in the city. ❜

❛ can you spot any constellations? ❜

❛ can i get you a drink? ❜

❛ i'm so tired, but i can't sleep… ❜

❛ it's too late for that. ❜

❛ this is gonna require an all-nighter. ❜

❛ how is it already two in the morning? ❜

❛ gonna grab a midnight snack. you want something? ❜

❛ can i take you home? ❜

❛ did you hear that? ❜

❛ i can't see shit. ❜

❛ why do hauntings never seem to happen during the day? ❜

❛ first one to fall asleep has to buy breakfast in the morning. ❜

❛ are you still awake? ❜

❛ are you okay? it sounded like you were having a bad dream. ❜

❛ well, you seemed like you were having a good dream… was it about me? ❜

❛ hey! no falling asleep on me! you better wake up! ❜

❛ what do you think about when you're falling asleep? ❜

❛ shh! keep your voice down! ❜

❛ please tell me you see that too… ❜

❛ i think we're being followed… ❜

❛ who the fuck are you?! why are you following me?! ❜

❛ why the hell are you up so late? ❜

❛ getting into some late night mischief? … yeah, me neither. ❜

❛ can you stay up with me, please? i just need some company… ❜

❛ don't turn on the light! ❜

❛ could you at least turn on a light or something? ❜

❛ who cares? it's not like anyone can see us. ❜

❛ this place is freakier at night… ❜

❛ it's locked… what are we supposed to do now? ❜

[witchiestwitch]

Lichdragon Fortissax

[valentinemichaelsmith]

Divine.

[inherentkaos]

(#𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔱.) ¦ * from beyond, golden eyes gleam dangerously. zeza watches the assassin take out some templars that were messing with her home. stub tail slowly swishing behind her. ear flicker when she hears him come closer, ears flickering back for a moment, before perking back up. slowly, she moves out of her hiding spot. ⁽⁽ i guess i have you to thank for clearing them from my home. they were lingering far too long. thank you. ⁾⁾ @clawedxmoon's ZEZA MOON-STALKER !

the last templar agent falls with a wet, graceless sound. ezio lets him drop. for a moment, there is only the rasp of his own breath beneath the hood, the slow drip of blood from the edge of his blade, the restless creak of timber settling in the walls around him. dust hangs in the air like old ghosts. he lowers his wrist. the hidden blade slides back into its place with a click. he has learned to respect the unknown before he feels threatened by it.

⁽⁽ prego, though i suspect you would have found a way to remove them yourself, given enough time. ⁾⁾ he takes a step back from the nearest body, granting her space. the boards complain beneath his boots. ⁽⁽ men like these rarely know when they are not wanted. ⁾⁾ his gaze flicks to the scattered signs of intrusion, then returns to her. ⁽⁽ it is a mistake they make only once with me. ⁾⁾

movement pulls at the ache in his shoulder. one of the attackers has caught him there with the edge of a sword. his eyes narrow slightly as he looks again at the filth on the ground. ⁽⁽ they were searching for something. or someone? you? ⁾⁾ he says it gently. a home is not merely walls and a roof. a home has hiding places made of habit. individuality. a cup left in the same corner. a blanket folded a particular way. scratches on wood, old smoke in stone, the shape of safety and comfort repeated until body and mind are convinced. the templars have disturbed all of it. he does not want to deepen the wound any further.

[inherentkaos]

i've updated my muse list; one has been removed & three have been added. i've separated them into primary and secondary/request muses. there might occasionally be posts about the muses in the latter category. but they'll be rarer and less detailed. however, i do enjoy writing them just as much as the others. they don't have bios because they're canon muses, but if i make any changes to them, i'll let you know while we plot 😌

[rotten-werk]

the heir

[reclaimeth]

the storm does not abate for her pause ; lightning continues to crawl root and scale alike , yet she stands within it as one might stand beneath a lover's hand⸺aware of the danger yet unwilling to pull away . her gaze lingers on fortissax longer than necessity demands , tracing the breadth of his coils , the way his wings fold in shelter . there is something achingly familiar in it : she , too , has learned to hold vigil over what the world has abandoned .

❛ it is not within my right to tear him from your keeping , ❜ she speaks softly , and the words carry a warmth that belies their weight . in that , perhaps , even their heart - written duties find kinship . while the lichdragon keeps him safe beneath its custody , fiadh keeps his dreams fertile with her champions' vigor . ❛ to bind oneself to a body that can no longer answer ... like you , i have laid myself beside the dead in love , lichdragon . ❜

her hand lifts , fingers grazing the charged air , and for a fleeting instant the storm answers her touch as though it knows her⸺static skittering up her wrist , like breath on skin . ❛ i feel your presence press upon this dream as i might feel another in the dark : close , commanding , impossible to ignore ... ❜ within the very margin of the space he has allowed her , where heat & cold , dry & wet , meet , the champions' souls mingling within her stir . ❛ and i have felt the very same of the call which was echoed to me through the plights of the un - living . i am to carry him & his progeny onward⸺from deeproot to order . ❜

a small , gut - wrenching truth stands between them , stark despite its gentleness . what fiadh will eventually birth from the prince cannot become so whilst the lichdragon remains entwined about his heart . this dream , after all , was never meant to be shared . ❛ eventually , he will find purchase in a glorious future that has no room for watchful lovers or faithful beasts . ❜

fiadh lowers her hand at last , feeling her imposition crackle through silence like thunder & welcoming the unease it brings . whether or not the lichdragon fortissax finds her worthy holds no weight in the eyes of the elden lord . ❛ for now , only one of us may remain to finish this vigil⸺and that , for all its cruelty , is mercy . ❜ her pale blue eyes do not leave fortissax's towering form . ❛ when the tarnished who walks between thrones comes , i only wonder which unstoppable force sunders us : will it be your storm of grief , desperately clinging to prince godwyn's becoming⸺or my ever - so - reviled doggedness ? ❜

[inherentkaos]

speech is a lesser thing, too small for what coils through the dream and grinds its grief into every root that dares grow near the prince. lightning crawls along fortissax's scales in slow, branching veins, red at its heart and pale at its dying edges. it slips between the ridges of his wings. it gathers where claw meets earth. each pulse illuminates the deeproot depths for a single violent breath, revealing wet bark, blackened stone, and the vast, ruined body beneath his keeping.

cold and slick, difficult to grasp, the prince lies at his side, reaching for the warmth that blazes within fortissax. the dream presses against him from every side as well. it knows him too well. no shadow falls without carrying some echo of gold. sometimes the dark opens for half a heartbeat and shows him what the world used to witness instead of what lies before him: godwyn crowned in living radiance, godwyn laughing beneath an open sky, godwyn reaching towards him with a hand untouched by death. so ever-bright.

really, the dream has become cruel and fiadh's words move through the charged air. they find each sore place without haste. she speaks of the prince's future as though it waits beyond the storm and of fortissax's grief as though grief alone knots him here.

his head lowers by degrees, bringing his skull nearer to her level without diminishing his colossal presence, filling the whole of her sight. horns rise behind him like the broken spires of some blasphemous cathedral. his breath leaves him slowly, hot and faintly sulphurous, disturbing the damp chill that gathers close to the prince. ❝ then thou knowest love is no ornament set aside when its vigil groweth inconvenient. ❞

he remembers another sky. he remembers the golden order before its splendour turns brittle with contradiction. he remembers a prince who does not look upon the dragons as relics fit only for conquest, but as beings whose strength may stand beside his own. kinship begins there, strange and difficult, forged from battle and reverence and the terrible tenderness of being seen clearly. fortissax stands at godwyn’s side in life. he does not abandon him, merely because some tarnished crawls forth from nothingness to lay claim to a thing whose weight and consequence their meagre mind could never hope to fathom. yet even a wretched ant may serve to keep a dying order in motion. his gaze fixes on fiadh, bright and narrow within the ruined grandeur of his face.

the prince is partly sheltered beneath the curve of his body, not held as property, but as the last promise fortissax knows how to keep. until his proper death. ❝ ere the chaos thou hast foreseen falls upon us, i would ask thee this: what right either of us possesseth to make a future from his silence? without his knowing. ❞ the storm gathers close around him. every pulse of red light reveals the terrible shelter of his folded wings and the ancient creature who has long since ceased to know whether he protects a choice or merely delays a wish. his head inclines by a fraction. ❝ when mercy demandeth that one faithful hand release what another would carry onward, by whose judgement shall the blade descend? dost thou not already deem thyself the rightful hand? ❞