memento mori

The King has a shadow, so quiet, so slick. Though soft as the dawnglow, makes dead of the quick... naenia • assassin for the king • necromancer

[naenias]

                                                      𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕣.

                                                             a playlist for naenia

Soon found out I was losing my mind ✸ Stifle up the being with the perfect armor, with a perfect dream ✸ Come just a little bit closer to me, step just a little bit closer to me  ✸ I've been born for sometime and I got death on my mind ✸ Oh down in the chaos, driven by black magic glow ✸ Many an hour before morning sun, don't dream of horror yet to come ✸ Unaware I'm tearing you asunder ✸ A new day will dawn for those who stand long, and the forests will echo with laughter ✸ Our bed, sweet death will foreclose on everybody's tongues ✸ It resonates inside my soul, it haunts me in my waking dream ✸ I don't know you anymore, anymore ✸ The things I could do, if you only knew ✸ I learned the voices died with me ✸ 

[naenias]

shadowrcith​:

Their attention focuses—hyperfocuses—on the touch of her hand against their shoulder, against their chest. They worry she will brush her fingers across cloth and find that there is nothing beneath it, only insubstantial smoke, but she removes her hand before she finds any, and they breathe a sigh of relief. If it sounds like the relief is at her words, well, it could only benefit them. In truth, they are a little too distracted to fully process her words, catching only the tail end. 

Her words, while true, aren’t near as much a balm as they ought to be. Yes, Septimus’ moods are as temperamental as the weather in spring, but that does not make them any less dangerous. Men have been beheaded more quickly than the time it takes for that mood to shift, some of them at her own hand. The King’s whims are powerful things, not to be underestimated. He would heal and come to forgive them for something that was no fault of their own, provided they lived long enough to witness it. 

     “Of course,” they say, regardless. Feigning complacency. “You’re right. He uses magic the same way he uses his military might: under the trust that those he pays know how to wield it better than he can.”

Softness does not become her, she thinks. While she can play the part of someone with more than a quarter of a fully functioning heart, the feeling of caring sits between her ribs at an odd angle, gets caught in the back of her throat as farce fights its way out. And yet, despite the mild discomfort, there is an odd satisfaction to be found in playing pretend, when there is worthy cause. 

Wraith, she believes, is worthy of the effort. 

The beading of their mask catches her eyes, which, in turn, catch the light as she admires such artistry. Such a beautiful disguise for a formidable beast; it makes her smile. 

“You wield it better than most,” she says, and the undeniable truth in that shocks even her. Enough so, that she takes a step back. She is no stranger to Inferni. She has danced in the flames of their chaos, been acquainted with many who came before Wraith and burned out faster than a candle in the Sanctum, and twice as bright. 

They were dangerous for what they were, but more so in the way they have carried themselves. 

“That does not mean you, nor I, are to watch over him like a child.” 

[naenias]

vasylia​:

status: closed to @naenias​. location: the noble quarters, castle tyrholm. date: sixth day of the tenth month, evening.

     So there was to be an inquisition. No, not an inquisition; they would let loose bloodhounds, set them upon people of interest, and allow their bloody jaws to give chase. The King would have them ferret out the villain and scratch them out from the earth, with only the scorched ground beneath them to attest to the fact that they’d ever been there. Vasylia could not authentically answer to how that made her feel: uneasy or gladdened? Tyrholm had come close to total collapse, a globe spinning on its axis too precariously, always within splitting distance of keeling over the edge. If it had not been for the decisive swing of Viktor’s iron sword—well, she did not like to linger on that thought for long. She would facilitate the King’s investigation, take an active role in it, even—because that is what Levana will do. And what Levana does, she does too.

     First: whispers. She has already taken charge of one set tonight. Vasylia has learned enough to know that, left to fester, whispers always become more than whispers. In fact, whispers become secrets, a great black mark rotting from a single point of origin—and rotting secrets become resistance, hostility, action. She isn’t certain where her desire to ballast the throne and her devotion to her teacher ends, but they trace along the same line. It hardly matters when their desires are so difficult to separate, does it?

     It’s late. The castle has been cloaked by nightfall for some hours, but Vasylia has been attending to things. Whispers. Prayer. Rumination. Things that fit into conspiracy and treason like a glove; things that hang over her now, dark as the witching hour. She is climbing the steps to the Noble Quarters, thinking of resting her head on goose-feathers and falling into an emptied dream, when she eyes a figure lurking amongst the festoons of blues and gold. Naenia, a face that attaches itself as securely to the absence of light as she does. Vasylia does not smile. As she passes a pillar, she brushes her fingers over it. 

     “Naenia. The King’s words trouble you?”

It was the flame of a torch that had caught her attention as she walked through the noble quarters; lost in thought until the sound of it licking at the air pulled her attention. She stood in the dimly lit corridor, watching it for a moment or two (she’d lost track of how long), regarding how its flickering points had the power to illuminate the surrounding stone and festoons in golden light. The sight of it brings the image of that blazing person from the tourney into her mind---an Inferni, no doubt. 

How must it feel to burn so brightly? There are burns, still, on her hands and legs that she refuses to heal that brought her close to knowing the answer to such a thing, but she has long forgotten how they once stung. 

A little voice pulls her from the flame, and it is quite the task not to sneer at finding the Priestess’ pup in the shadows. 

“Yes,” she coos, but there is little truth behind her reply. Eyes drop the the stones below her, her feigned dejection hiding behind long lashes. “Sleep does not come easily for me. I needed some air... To collect my thoughts.” 

Her eyes find the young woman again, and her feet slowly follow suit. Naenia closes the distance between them like a spider creeping to a fly.

“And you? I hear you are to accompany Levana in the proceedings. Does this trouble you?” 

[naenias]

francisdaumantas​:

“Yes,” Francis agrees. Balance. The Undying God demands it, from all things. No life without death, no war without peace. Naenia, a necromancer, knows this to be true perhaps even more than Francis, though only just. It is Septimus who does not understand it, who spits in the face of it. Septimus, who takes life but does not give it, who enables war without peace.

“Perhaps,” says Francis, turning to face Naenia where she sits. They do not follow, but rather watch her from the altar. 

“Or perhaps not.” They give a noncommittal shrug and move to stand behind the pulpit, their hands moving to rest on either edge on instinct. They have to fight to keep their voice conversational when they speak again, to remind themselves that it’s only Naenia here now, and not a chapel full of people.

"I am merely drawing a comparison,” they say. Perhaps it was a non-believer, a simple assassination attempt. It would not be the first, nor the last, in Tyrholm’s history. Or perhaps it was a message, from the Undying God Herself. Perhaps King Septimus has finally taken too much, and it is time for him to give. They do not feel particular sorrow for the king either way– Naenia, however, is unreadable.

“And you? What do you make of it?”

Fire was such a perfect example of balance; killing and living all at once as it blazed its path. It almost seemed too perfect of an end for a man like Septimus, who did not believe in the nature of equilibrium. 

Francis’ avoidance of giving any real answer was annoying, but expected. Their loyalty was never truly to Septimus anyhow, like any good Cleric; it would hardly have been a surprise to hear any kind of disdain for the King come from the same mouth that praises the holy one they are bound to. For as much as she wanted to hear what others truly thought of the display at the Tourney, she’d been around long enough to know that keeping mum was the best route to keeping one’s head attached to their shoulders. 

“I see.” She takes a breath, a moment to think.

“I do not make much of it,” she says. Fingers graze the wood grain of the pew in front of her. “I believe he had found enemies in believers and the lost, alike, both having their own ways of justifying such an attack. For a man who forges his own path, far from the Undying, he has found balance in his opponents, wouldn’t you say?” 

[naenias]

☓ location: feivel’s office status: CLOSED ; @honor-among-th1eves​

Haunting has become habit. (Though she would argue that it wasn’t so much haunting as it was others being bothered by her quiet presence.) Waiting for Feivel to return to his office, there is no doubt in her mind that he will be bothered by finding her here. She leans into the discomfort she causes in others, often takes an odd comfort in the predictability of gaining such response; though she wonders if she were anyone else---felt anything more than indifference---if her heart would break by the notion of being feared. 

She doesn’t think too long about it. Instead, she focuses on the old leather spines that her fingers graze as they move along the bookshelf that now belonged to Feivel. She remembers the names of those who came before him, and which books they recommended to her during times that seem more like dreams these days. Just as she goes to pluck a book from the shelf, her attention is pulled by nails against stone. 

The hound finds her before the target of her interest does, and she watches with great enthusiasm as it goes from a placid creature to a snarling beast at the mere sight of her standing there in the office. The animal’s loyalty exists to its man, who may as well be its god--- it knows nothing of politics or magic; a noble trait, indeed.

“Hello Feivel,” she coos once the other has followed Gunport’s lead into the room. “Your beast has quite the nose.” 

[persephonememes]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 /  𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠.

❛ You will always fall in love, and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast. ❜

❛ You are going to break your promise. ❜

❛ I understand. ❜

❛ And I hold my hands over the ears of my heart, so that I will not hate you. ❜

❛ Oh, I will be cruel to you. ❜

❛ It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. ❜

❛ But you understand, don’t you? ❜

❛ I am a demanding creature. ❜

❛ I am selfish and cruel and extremely unreasonable. ❜

❛ For you alone I will be weak. ❜

❛ I do not tolerate a world emptied of you. ❜

❛ In the dark, I have pored over the loss of you like pale gold. ❜

❛ I have looked for your face in the patterns of the ice. ❜

❛ I moved the earth and the water for you. ❜

❛ Because my magic is as strong as an arm. ❜

❛ Magic does that. It wastes you away. ❜

❛ Magic does that. It wastes you away. Once it grips you by the ear, the real world gets quieter and quieter, until you can hardly hear it at all. ❜

❛ You will always run away with her. ❜

❛ You will always lose her. ❜

❛ You will always be a fool. ❜

❛ War is not for winning. ❜

❛ But her heart was so cold that she could hold ice in her mouth and it would never melt. ❜

❛ You look like a winter night. ❜

❛ But if you must be clever, then be clever. ❜

❛ Be brave. ❜

❛ Sleep with fists closed and shoot straight. ❜

❛ She is so stubborn, her heart has an argument with her head every time it wants to beat. ❜

❛ How I adore you. ❜

❛ Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me. ❜

❛ Oh, quit that. ❜

❛ In his own country, death can be kind. ❜

❛ Bad luck relies on absolutely perfect timing. ❜

❛ Someone ought to write a novel about me. ❜

❛ I savor bitterness - it is born of experience. It is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ❜

❛ What is the world but a boxing ring where fools and devils put up their fists? ❜

❛ After love, no one is what they were before. ❜

❛ In the space of one heartbeat to another I loved you and I was lost to you. ❜

❛ No one is now what they were before the war. There’s just no getting any of it back. ❜

❛ How long your hair has grown. You could strangle a man in it. ❜

❛ I have survived, but I have not been spared. ❜

❛ After all, when all else is gone, you may still have bitterness in abundance. ❜

❛ I’ve a devil of a habit for being right. ❜

❛ Everyone is a criminal! ❜

❛ Naturally, then, humans fall into three categories: the criminal, the not-yet-criminal, and the not-yet-caught. ❜

❛ Forests have secrets. ❜

❛ We are better at this than you are. ❜

❛ We can hold two terrible ideas at once in our hearts. ❜

❛ It’s not so bad, my darling. ❜

❛ I look at you and it is like my throat being cut. ❜

❛ Do you think I am a fool? ❜

❛ Did you never think, even once, that I loved lipstick and rouge for more than their color alone? ❜

❛ I still want to kiss you. ❜

❛ I hate it here. ❜

❛ He’ll burn you down like wax if you let him. ❜

❛ Did I not come to you on my knees with a kingdom in my hand? ❜

❛ I am not a little girl anymore, dazzled by your magic. It is my magic, now, too. ❜

❛ My heart is being cut in two. I cannot bear it. ❜

❛ Nothing ever truly dies. ❜

[naenias]

shadowrcith​:

She is a perpetual mystery to them, something only solidified by her responses to just about everything they say. With how little she speaks and how much she seems to know, the power she wields, they don’t doubt for a second that if they overstepped, she would let them know. They’re curious to know, that’s all, if she is content to take a beating she does not deserve because the King is frightened. 

Perhaps it had been an ill-advised question. Perhaps they were more used to Viktor’s slightly less inhuman reaction to the King’s outlandish behavior. Perhaps it was dangerous, even in vagaries, to question the King’s judgment so soon after an attempted assassination, especially in front of the one he sent to kill those who questioned him. But… there is a part of them, not small, that wants Naenia to agree with their anger, that wants her approval, though they wouldn’t admit it in as many words. To have a place like hers, secure at the King’s side for so long… 

     “I only mean to say, when I came to this court I did not intend to become a scapegoat because the King misunderstands my uses. That is all.” 

The collectivity she displays within the cold hall is nothing more than a practiced default; a symptom of her Gift. While it is easy for one to assume she is unbothered by Septimus’ rage, her anger and offense lives beneath her skin; it is a slow-coiling thing, twisting around itself as she thinks of what to do to quell it. 

As for the Spymaster, well... The Inferni are not known for self-soothing qualities. It is times like this, when she bares witness to the fragility of humanity, that she cannot help but look upon the other from beyond herself--- from the higher perspective that the numbing of her Gift afforded her. 

“Wraith,” she coos, and steps even closer. A careful hand reaches out to land upon their shoulder. “Your loyalty, above all else, is more valuable to him than your uses. He may be a King, but he is only a man.” Only the scuff of her shoe against the stone floor is louder than her voice, which she hopes is enough to soothe the other. “He does not understand what we are. How could he?” 

She has dealt with Septimus long enough to know that his moods are never in one place for too long, and in time he will find someone more worthy to be angry with. “He is bruised, and we have little to do with that, but he will heal,” she says. The hand on Wraith’s shoulder slides down the front of their jacket to pat at their chest before it falls to her side once again. 

[naenias]

achillesgrieves​:

There is a feeling that accompanies walking into a trap, his instincts have never betrayed him before. It’s something akin to discomfort, but worse. Something that makes you sweat and fear. He feels it now, slowly building in his gut, as he follows her through her winding path through the castle.

There is no winning this situation he’s put himself in. But damn it, does he wish to see the end of it.

The stables are not the route he expects from her. He’s played this game with her too many times, his confidence getting the better of him every time. But never has she led him to someplace so quiet, so secluded. Briefly, he wonders if this is the end of him if she knows too much. Worse than that, if she does not believe in his side of the story.

She turns to him, and her eyes on him are something he’s not entirely ready for. Saif has never felt so seen, so unworthy. It’s as if those eyes can see to his very soul. Can tell he is not enough for the position he’s been given. But her voice, for all its venom, is like a lullaby. Something to get addicted too, to want to hear again. He wonders, half-heartedly, if that’s why she speaks so little. To stop the masses from falling in love with Death herself.

“I am sorry,” It’s not even close to what he would like to say, but it’s all that comes to him.

There is a foolish mistake that most Ungifted fall into when in the presence of a Necromancer, which is believing that death should befall them at any moment; as if the cost of a life is not worth riches and unfathomable energy. As if one did not need to take into consideration the delicate balance of nature before extracting life. She has never known a Necromancer to act with such flippancy with the Ungifted, but it was not in her interest to admit such a thing when the Guard looks at her in such an amusing way. 

Nervous energy fills the air within the stable stall, and it does not emanate from her. She prefers it this way.

“No,” she says, keeping her distance despite the small space, “You’re not.” There is no telling if, or when, the other would feel the effects of her proximity, but she stays to her corner regardless. It is always a shame when others lose consciousness during a conversation, and she has become too invested in this one. A lack of energy would do nothing to untwist his tongue. 

I am no mind reader, contrary to the King’s belief, but your face betrays you.

“Are you plotting my murder?” she cooed. The corners of blue-tinted lips upturned slightly at the thought of being afraid of him. “Your constant following has me ready to prepare a target on my back for your knife.” She longs to tell him to get it over with, if this is your plan. 

[naenias]

francisdaumantas​:

The moon has come and gone since, and Francis still does not know what to make of the assassination attempt on the King– if that is indeed what it was. They once knew a man who proved their love to Undeath by setting themselves alight; perhaps they were simply showing their fealty. Truthfully– and privately, of course– Francis has not dwelled on the thought much further than that. If it was an attempt at assassination, well– kings die. This has always been Undeath’s way.

Francis is one of the first to be granted leave from the castle grounds. Whether it is due to the King’s trust in them, or to simply get them out of Septimus’ sight, they neither notice nor care. Their heart has always been with the people, anyway. The court can cower in fear; Francis has duties, and a god to serve. 

The city’s Sanctum is noticeably less ornate than the one on the castle grounds, but Francis finds beauty in its simplicity. The commoners do not care if there are chalices of gold for them to drink from, or cushioned seats for them to rest. They are like Francis, far more than the King ever could be. They are lighting the candles when Naenia enters.

Francis smiles at her, polite but professional. Necromancers are to be revered for their gifts, but nothing more. They keep a measured distance, but it does not matter; the match between their fingers burns out as she approaches.

“The Undying God has blessed me with purpose,” Francis replies, with as vague an answer as her question. “As She has you,” they add. They lift up the match to show off its burnt head before placing it on the altar. A wave of thought washes over them, and they look at Naenia with newfound curiosity.

“You are aware of the story of the Unburnt, yes?” Francis asks, head cocked to one side. “Three men, thrown into a fire for renouncing the King’s false god.” They both know the story’s end, but they share it aloud anyway. A smile crosses their face, unsettling beside the flickering light of the candles. “But they do not burn.”

She knows well enough of the Unburnt for the image of three men engulfed in flames, immortalized within stained glass of brilliant shades of yellow, orange, and red to pop into her mind: a window at the Temple of the Undying she used to be quite terrified of as a small child. She dared not step too close around the latter half of daylight, for fear of those hues landing on her, as if their fate would befall her, as well. 

She merely nods at the question, stepping closer to the altar where Francis placed the candle, but not daring to get too close to them. Francis, sweet Francis, she wonders what their purpose is in telling the story when they know she is no stranger to the script of Undeath. She listens, regardless, as such teachings never did sound so certain when touted from lips other than theirs. 

“What is false for some is truth for others,” she says, her voice as soft as the flickering of their candles. “Balance.” 

A dark cloak trails behind her like a shadow as she finds her way to a pew to take a seat.

“Are you presuming that the display was an act of a nonbeliever?”

[naenias]

shadowrcith​:

If they had been a thing of fire, they might have let loose a stream of flame from their hands, the excess energy leaving their body in an incandescent rage. Some other kind of inferni and they might have let it take them, taken her offer and let their feelings out one way or another. But they are not a thing of fire, and the void has no such place for rage, for frustration. They have spent almost twenty years in this court calm and stoic at every turn, and one tantrum from Septimus won’t break that. 

     “No,” they admit, with a sigh, reaching up to readjust the strap that holds their mask to their face instead, in part to make sure it is in place and in part as a reminder of their roll here, the part they are to play. “It’s foolish. The King will want what the King will want, even if that’s divination and inhuman foresight. But if he wants me to start reading minds, he’ll need to open his purse.”

They aren’t a mind reader; far from it. They work in concretes, their intuition only going so far as to lead them from one piece of reliable information to the next. Assumptions, in their field, were a dangerous game; guesses were even worse. It’s the same thing that holds them back from understanding her: impossible, to know a person, when you couldn’t overhear them, when they almost never voiced their thoughts.”

     “Tell me, Naenia,” they say, knowing it’s more likely than not that she won’t indulge them this, but taking the chance regardless, more to prove a point than to hear an answer. “Is it in your job description, to tuck the King into bed at night? Bring him a glass or warm milk and check the wardrobe for monsters?” A jest, they would defend themself, if anyone were around to overhear, but they know every nook and cranny of this castle and they know when and where they can say things that won’t be overheard. The insult might border on seditious, but no one in this court questioned their loyalty to the man who sat on that throne, lest some well-placed, suspicious information arrive about their whereabouts and who they’d been in contact with. 

Hearing her name gains them her attention once more; few spoke it so curtly, if at all. Hands clasped before her, she moves closer, head tilted, pulled in by the jest as if she hopes to hear them better. In truth, something within her stirs at the audacity of them asking her such things.

“Is it in yours?” The question is thrown back to them from where she stands a mere foot away with narrowed eyes. They are, after all, far closer to Septimus than she has ever been. She sizes them up, giving more thought to the possibility of what their nonsensical questions were a poor translation for. The Spymaster had much more at stake, she supposed, and even more reason to speak in code because of it.

She has always been skeptical of Wraith’s internal compass. The man on fire---along with failing drastically---simply roused the embers of her suspicion. She does little to show it. If they intend to get a rise out of her, as foolish a decision that would be, they would have to do far more. Her shadow has darkened the castle halls far longer than theirs had, and it would continue to, long after the bone in their jaw was given back to the earth it was drawn from.

Her voice is a mere whisper as she tells them, “No wardrobe could contain his monsters.” 

[naenias]

shadowrcith​:

     time: the sixth of the tenth month, immediately after meeting with Septimus      place: just outside the throne room          ( @naenias​ )

They are angry. It’s uncharacteristic, of them; they’ve gotten by this far in part by never letting their temper or any other strong feeling get the better of them. But Septimus’ words are still ringing in their ears, and right now there is no cool, clear, empty balm of the void to take the sting away: no, instead they have been ordered into a glorified time out by a King who is behaving like a frightened child desperate for someone to blame. You should have seen it coming. If the King wanted prescience, he ought to have hired a fortune teller. Where were you? If the King wanted protection, he had bodyguards for that. His bodyguard, in fact, had protected him, and with plenty of time to spare. How were they supposed to have stopped it? 

What if, after all, the burning man had acted alone? Had told no one? Had done it in a fit of madness? There would be no whispers, around Tyrholm, of a plan like that. No spy would have seen that coming, in that case. 

The door to the throne room slams shut, and they are left in the empty hall outside with only Naenia for company. A part of them wishes they were alone, instead, so they could let their temper get the better of them for just a moment, kick something or shout. But then… a part of them is grateful, almost, as they look over at her, weighing her expression, wondering if she thinks the King’s response is as unfair as they do.

Just like that, silence pours in, filling the space where Septimus’ old timbre bounced off the walls in its fury, and she is left to stare at the wood grain and carved wolves that decorated the doors to the throne. Though the anger was aimed at Wraith and her---a decision beyond reason, like most of Septimus’ decisions---there is that ever-wondering bit of her brain that imagines what it would be like to feel so intensely that it shakes your bones and elicits words louder than the ocean waves that crack against the cliffs. Would she be like Septimus? Then again, she has grown tired of men and their derivative rage.

It seems that Wraith was of a similar mindset, as they look to each other at the same time. 

The task they were both somehow attached to outranked them. They are nothing more than collectors, the two of them: Wraith, of secrets, and Naenia, of souls. What business did they have seeing the future or putting out fires? 

Contrary to popular belief, there is much that she would like to say, much that she could say, and it reads in her expression. But she is not so thick as to assume that they are safe just because they both find themselves on Septimus’ bad side. 

Eyes shift to the stone beneath her feet. “Don’t hold back on my account.” 

[naenias]

☓ location: tyrholm city sanctum, day after the tourney  status: CLOSED ; @francisdaumantas​

Despite the beauty of the castle’s Sanctum, she prefers to make the journey into the city for her worship. With the amount of devotees that pack themselves into the space, it is easier for her to hide in plain sight. She prefers the people to the nobles--- those who know the truth of balance, and feel its significance firsthand, compared to those who have tipped the scales in their favor to such an extent that they have become broken. 

There is a different energy in the city, one that shines a light through the fog in her mind. As she leaves the temple, she spots a familiar face and wonders if she is not alone in her preferences. 

A gold coin is placed upon the steps before the large entryway, and she slowly stands to face them.

“Are you doing your part as well?” she asks, though the question is about a clear as a murky water. 

[naenias]

☓ location: stables, night of the grand tourney status: CLOSED ; @achillesgrieves​

She has taken to walking down corridors her shadow would otherwise not darken, if it wasn’t for a certain someone seeking her out. She takes the longest routes, the ones with plenty of turns for her to use to see if he still darkens her peripheral vision, and the ones that will do not have her quarters at the end of them if it means he will no longer follow. Though, lately, it feels as if she has created a problem for herself in the shape of a companion, no more substantial than one of the many stray cats that lurks the docks with a penchant for trailing behind those who wander there.

He is a persistent one; so much so that his footsteps have followed into her dreams, twisting them almost to the point of nightmares. After the grand display at the Tourney and the subsequent skepticism, however, it would have been foolish for her not to be wary of what the Guard’s persistence truly meant.

This night she has lured him to the stables, curiosity guiding her quiet feet. It becomes a dead end as she turns into an empty stall to see if he will enter. There is little in their shared world that can still manage to surprise her, but his bold choice in following, still, straightens her spine.

“Enough,” says a voice as soft as down feather, and slight in a similar way some poisons cannot be tasted in tea. 

Pale eyes aim like daggers down the length of a sharp nose--- Speak, they seem to say. 

[octopusmagnificens-deactivated2]

[cowboysfuck]

                                           remember I have done thee worthy service,
                                             told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings,                                               served
 without or grudge or grumblings.

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, POSSUM! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE SUN with the faceclaim of ANGELA SARAFYAN. The Sun is a tricky skeleton to pin down in the sense that there has to be an acknowledgement of something sitting underneath, and you got it right away. Naenia is such a character that she immediately carved a way into my heart, from her loyalty to her dedication to her craft to the conflict she feels but cannot – or maybe even will not – acknowledge. She has incredible potential to make waves and in spite of her iciness, I feel a great deal of love for her. Your touches of worldbuilding and lore expansion were also nice little cherries on top of the cake; I can’t wait to see what you do in-game!

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[weltenwellen]

Sally Wen Mao, from “Lavender Town”