aut viam inveniam aut faciam

for @nocturniafm

[prodigxlis]

written by lys, for @nocturniafm,

𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇; — intro ♦ inspiration 𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐑𝐔𝐎𝐗𝐈; — intro ♦ inspiration Á𝐒𝐓𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐂; — intro ♦ inspiration

[wanshangs]

the apology is cut short by recognition, and lian cannot help but think this feels too good to be true. meeting a dear friend after so long? when everything feels so bleak and unending? he is the hopeful kind, but he couldn't have imagined this a possibility to begin with. laughter falls from his lips as he nods eagerly, hands going up to their elbows when they approach. "it's me- it is me!" a light squeeze of their arms through the robes, a smile that he cannot stop. "oh my- what are the chances! and here now, at this hour-" in somewhat of an irrational way, seeing them now, with everything that is going on, feels like a good sign. that things will look up, even at the most unexpected time and place. one could call him a fool for it, and he wouldn't particularly care. he is with a dear friend- one he has missed for so long, happiness fills his chest with it. "i'm so happy to see you as well! and to see you safe —" which seems to be more important than anything else now, he shudders to think of all the possibilities, regardless with or without the council. "how have you been? it's been so long-" well, perhaps not too long, hasn't been more than a few years, yet he finds any type of time spent without someone he holds dear, too long. the hug is returned with the same fervor, if not more, and he keeps a loose hand on their arm, even after they let go. "oh- yes — i'm..." there is a lull, as he is suddenly reminded of a fact omitted. not deliberately, nor with ill intent. however, still something unshared. does ásta know he is a braxigarian noble? would they care? while the thought is a frightening one, lian knows anything but the truth after this point would be a lie. and he cannot lie to a friend. "i'm- part of a house called perrelor keep... as one of the nuwas." he is a bit quieter as he waits for the reaction, holding his breath.

[prodigxlis]

While yet in an embrace, Ásta’s merriment had been such that they couldn’t help but rock them both in it. Now that they have parted, even if just slightly, their smile remains wide and bright. They lean towards the touch, their tall height bending as if a happy tree. “Me too! I am so glad!” A moment of respite within the storm—had they not come here to this little garden, hidden from all, to find such? And for this warmth to have found them feels as if providence. A good omen, one that brings much needed relief. “I’m doing well!” A pause. “Oh, well, not truly, but…” The joy had dimmed all for a moment, but again it fell like a blanket of snow upon their shoulders when the thoughts chased and caught up to them. “With what has come to pass, I find myself weary, but—Uh.” Oh, but how could they have forgotten for a moment that Lian did not know? Traveling together had been about that which they found together, back when such a past was still yet the now, and thus, all outside of it was able to be forgotten. Ásta had been running, and it seems, now, that so had he. How could they not have realized that just as they carried secrets, so could he? “A house?!” Their mouth is agape, but it closes quickly, as their brow furrows. “Nuwa?” Their head tilts, as they play through the records of current Houses within their mind. Nothing, at first, until they recited the names from the Hollow that they thought furthest from Lian’s nature yet. Then, they startled—black eyes blinking at the ruby of Lian’s own. “Braxigar.” They breathe out.

In Heliophra’s golden light, the hue could not be mistaken for anything else but its true crimson. Red that in Draegor was commonly seen only in the bleeding of caught hares, of meat yet rare. In the white moonlight of Drakathar, it was easier for someone as naive as them, as purposefully blind, to pretend it was naught but a curious shade of brown. “Oh.” Ásta should’ve known. “Oh!” They repeat, this time amazed. “But, how? I thought you rarely left your Hollow? How did you get to Drakathar? If you were a merchant then it would make sense—” Though what wares could be sold from said lands to Drakathar is a mystery they would not deign to address. “—but a noble? Oh, but,” They stop then, suddenly, swallowing around nothing. “I… Here I am, asking so much of you, ha. When I would not have liked the same, back then. I see why you didn’t… tell me.” “I am also from a House. From, uh, Drakathar. You could tell that was my homeland the moment we met, probably, I just… Well.” Oh, how witless they had been yet again! The previous relief meets its match in the worry that replaces it, as they pluck nervously at their lyre strings, as they bite at their bottom lip. “I wouldn’t blame you, for not suspecting the name I will say at all. Even I would struggle to believe it!” Scattered laughter, nervous and awkward. They swallow again. Go on, Ásta, like ripping off a bandage—like striking the first note in an empty room, and surrendering to the song that followed, sad or bitter or a merry dance. “I am Ásta, of House Malaric, come from Draegor from whence I hail.” They curtsy, then rise again quickly enough for it to almost be a small hop. “At your service?” They wince. “Sorry. Or not, whichever makes it less worse. Though I guess now we have yet another thing in common, do we not? You truly must be here for the summons! Ha. Oh.” Oh, no. If Lian was there for such, then did that not mean they were most likely to support the candidate from their home? And with Ásta having just said their name… Oh, no. Already they get ready to cringe, hoping not to have invited their anger, or caused any vexation.

[vainglcriousx]

The corners of his lips lift, impish and charmed, as they play a progression. On instinct, and purely from a joy of partaking in music, Evandris mirrored the notes, adding a few extra chords and flourishes after as if to continue writing an unknown melody. There was something charming about composing with someone he did not instantly recognize, as though within the notes and melody were greetings and questions. Who are you? Where are you from? Music was an entirely different language, another way to converse. Much like poetry, it touched people in many ways. Evandris loved the evocative nature of different forms of art, reveled in their beauty. And more often than not he used such wonderful things in his callous pursuit of others. That was far from his mind now, a more childish curiosity taking to his features as he observed their lyre in kind.

He stood a bit taller, as though emboldened by the compliment of his lute. As if he himself had crafted it. But the smile dimmed at their reaction to the crest. Ah, the spell had dissipated. Familiarity found its way to their face, and Evandris’s expression fell with disappointment. Perhaps he should have expected it eventually. Of Morkhul or not, most knew the Elarion crest at first glance. He felt a bit sheepish for expecting the recognition to not settle eventually, lost in the moment of not being a pair of nobles but just being a pair of musicians. He merely nodded in thanks for the compliment of the instrument, but his grin returned, this time more amused, as they explained the craftsmanship of their own instrument to him.

Without realizing, he reacted out, his fingers barely brushing over the smooth head of the dragon snake. Dragon. Drakathar. Lifting his blue eyes to their face, he carefully searched for familiarities, some sort of sign of what house they belonged to. It was clear then, the longer he looked at them. A clear family resemblance. Evandris felt a bit foolish not realizing right away, but then again he was not the most observant lord. He was too occupied with himself at times to even remember others or their names.

“ It is very beautiful, ” he returned the compliment to their own instrument. “ I’m curious about this song that was so beloved it would lead someone to gift you such a fine piece of art. Would you be willing to play it for me? ” He could tell it held a long history with the other, had likely played many a favorite song for someone somewhere. He did not know how many of his songs were favored by others. He played for a lot of drunks, who would claim one ditty was their favorite and then betray it for the next. His mother had loved a particular ballad of his, and would sometimes ask he play it for her and her beloved flowers in the garden. Beyond that, he could not name a time someone truly told him they adored his composition. If he were not enchanted by the lyre, he may have been jealous.

When his name escapes them, Evandris straightens up, moving his attention from the instrument to the player instead. “ I’m flattered, ” he teased lightly, his grin lopsided and winsome as they spoke of hearing of him. That could have meant a great many things — his reputation preceded him in many ways. Either it was family name, his art, or his other activities that gave him a name beyond his front door. Evidently it was not his talents that made it to them. He suspected it was the family title, especially as he had mentally concluded which house he suspected them to belong. “ But now that you know my face, I see I am at a disadvantage. I know yours, and I know some of your song, ” he played that short chord progression before continuing, “ But I do not know your name. ”

Their refusal to hold his instrument earned a wider amused grin. He thought he could see in their expression a desire that went against their words, an eagerness to touch the instrument. He shook his head lightly. “ Nonsense, it is not delicate. It’s crafted from the finest wood, and is quite sturdy… Seen its fair share of tavern brawls and survived without a scuff. I do not think you could damage it much. And besides — if I am trustworthy enough to hold yours, then surely you can hold mine. ”

He raised a brow, chuckling at the offer to teach him. “ I’ve never played the lyre, ” he admitted, still holding the lute out for them to take. “ You have the advantage here of knowing both our instruments. I would be happy to be your student, if it would mean broadening my repertoire. ”

[prodigxlis]

Ásta had never played with anyone else, before. Bards and Skalds were not rare in Draegor, and they had seen many-a-performance both within those stone halls and without—but to feel the thread of music be followed by another, for their song to be the same? How did you think of that? They want to ask, lingering as the notes he had added to the tune fade. Where did that come from, and where was it meant to go? And more importantly, could they follow it further yet?

They wish to ask so many things, a wordless conversation meant instead to be a lovely tune. And yet, Ásta turns red immediately when questioned themselves. “Oh, well, uh—I’ve never. Played for anyone that plays, before… Or, well, I must’ve! Just not so… Not so directly. Besides my tutor, before I left her behind, of course. It must be second nature for you! Do you play for crowds a lot as well? Where did you learn?”

That particular tune, the one played for their weapon-master, had ever since joined their repertoire, and they would play it merrily for when the tavern floor had turned slow and sweet. “I, very well! But! I demand that you… Demand a song for a song, if that is alright. If it is too much, then—” Never had a demand been so shy, nor so stuttering. They truly wish to hear him play again, even if he had only played a few notes, for those few had been so pretty. “Two songs for one song? To even the scales? Surely that would be fair.” Silly, but it was all they could think and offer.

Their onyx eyes blink, before they widen in realization. “Oh! Right.” Another step back, followed by a short curtsy. “My name is Ásta, of House Malaric.” They rise, more sheepish than any dragon ought to be. “Forgive me, I’ve fallen out of custom when it comes to introductions, ha… It must’ve been quite rude. I am here to accompany my family due to the Crownwearer summons.” They sadden, then, remembering what Vaelor has gotten himself into. Then, they shake their head, hoping while grimacing that such obvious upset did not discomfort lord Elarion much. “But so have all our fellow nobles from their Hollows, have they not? Nothing special here!”

“Oh, you got me there. And, well, if you say it is sturdy… Surely, it would not hurt then, surely.” Despite the previous reluctance, Ásta swaps their instruments eagerly, if with great care—almost eagerly enough for it to be offensive to their beloved lyre. They could regret such temporary parting little, however, with such a beautiful instruments in their grasp. Ásta shakes their head, braids of silver-gold hair swaying with its movement. “No, I know only to play as a novice would.” It is no feigned humility: when they play a bit, it is clumsy at first, before the notes are replicated almost perfectly.

Almost, for they can tell they did not do it quite right. They bite their lip, doing it again with a small change in the chord, and yet nothing, and so confusion comes. When they meet his eyes again, they flush at their own stumbling, even while giving him a wide, if still-yet embarrassed, smile.

“I shall be happy to teach you!” The smile turns brighter yet, making their eyes crinkle. “Here, hold it like—Yes, that’s perfect. We are lucky our instruments are tuned the same.” Seven-rather-than-five scale, a larger room for missteps, yet more freedom for its song to take flight. “It is only the place of its notes that has been swapped. Here—” Without thinking further, Ásta takes his hand with gentleness, and brings his fingers to each of the chords to grace with a feather-touch. “Do, re, mi… You get the gist.” Their laugh is cheerful, like a small precious bell, as they let go. “It is less than what you’re used to, I suppose, but at least more straightforward?”

They retreat a step. “Try to play something, anything at all. Once you know what you can work with, you will learn where to go.” Ásta plays the lute strings themselves, calloused fingers meeting the rosewood fingerboard, pressing and playing the progression again, and, once again, finding it lacking. “How did you get it to do that?” They question, half-murmur. “You gave it a little flourish… Perhaps I’ve forgotten more than I thought?”

[aubadement]

𝖜𝖍𝖔: idalia eluwe && @prodigxlis. (ruoxi) 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊: somewhere deep in the gardens 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖓: current timeline

✧˚ · . ─── Delicate and demure, like flowers sprouting atop a grave, it was not within Lady Idalia's wheelhouse to possess anything which could wound or maim. She stared at the weaponry, finding this simple, albeit lethal, molding of silver to be uninspiring, but she smiled wildly down upon it as though a dozen vivid images of how she could make it beautiful sprung to mind. " My lady , this weaponry insults you . "

Beauty carved of marble, polished like an incandescent pearl, Idalia shook her head at the sword which seemed so plain compared to the vivid robes and jewels the Heliophran knight of Dawnmyre often seemed so spun up within. Idalia knew if she were to clench her palms around the blade, her blood would spill like glittering rubies, the hues of an eternal sunrise spilling from her veins. She refrained though her fingers flexed, hovering over the sharpness of the blade, entirely inept when it came to swordsmanship.

" If you have brought me here to spar , you will wound me so and with great ease , " her smile was vividly sweet, wisps of honey smothering a glinting jewel.

[prodigxlis]

She is not wrong. Her pretty painted lips tell not lies, and the sight of her delicate skin so close to the cutting blade is more than enough to make any passer-by shiver, to wish to rush to cradle her to their chest as if she is woven from crystal thread. As it is, Ruoxi herself stands still—careful to avoid any movements that might bring her closer to the edge; now, if only her tongue were half as still. “What weaponry do you believe worthy of me, hm? Paint a picture with your words—you know I love when you flatter me.” And yet, truth be told, there were other weapons she favoured much more than such dull swords: her gold-gilded mace, her wicked morning-star of steel that rippled like dawn. This was not her usual fare, and so it lacked the glamour she preferred. “Tsk.” Ruoxi lowers the sword, away from her hands. “I’ve brought you here to sit pretty, and cheer for me as I tear this training dummy to ribbons.” She points to it with her chin. “Since with what has happened, those above us have grown wise and decided to close the tourney grounds, lest more tragedy were to happen. Though if you’ve changed your mind to try,” She smirks, though it is only half there. “You know I shall be gentle.”

Even that half-grin lasts little, burdened as she is by each passing day, each wearier than the last. “Too much is on my mind.” She admits only to those jeweled eyes. But then, she flips her hair, acting once again non-chalant. “Yet I am hardly the only one. Crownblood is to run through your veins, hm? Not content with your usual shine?”

[wcnderingsovls]

rhyaenna burrowed her head in the crook of ruoxi's neck, and she clung onto her like a child did with their mother's skirt. a soft cry died in the back of her throat, pressed underneath the ball she could not swallow. "what do you mea--?" broken words, barely uttered. he was there, he was there. "he's--" ruoxi urged her to face the other direction, so those dead eyes could no longer peer into her soul. she blinked the vision away and tried to listen intently to her cousin, for she was the only thing that made any sense to her at all. she could see her. touch her. feel the warmth beneath her fingertips. ruoxi was real. but they were not.

"they're gone," rhyaenna said. and then it all came tumbling down. a weight she could no longer hold. a dam broke. the burning behind her eyes gave way to tears, and her shoulders wracked with sobs as she repeated it over and over: they'regonethey'regonethey'regone. after some time, it was no longer reminiscent of words. it was merely sound, mournful and pitiful and all the things she had held at bay because she could not survive it. it was like dying while still being cursed to live. how could anyone endure this? how could ruoxi? how had she bore it alone all this time?

"i'm sorry, xixi." she knew her apology would not suffice. it was too little to offer when she knew it could hurt like this. "i'm sorry i wasn't there." but it would have to do for now, until she could make it up to her cousin. she knew not how she would do it, but she would spend the rest of her days figuring it out, if only ruoxi would let her. they could endure it all -- but only together. rhyaenna did not think she could withstand the tides without her knight by her side. all their lives they had been these broken and jagged pieces, but together, they made one whole.

she could not be without ruoxi just as she could not be without the breath in her lungs or the moon in the sky. it pained her to give any one person this much power, but ruoxi had always been the stronger of the two. she could wield it, and rhyaenna would trust her. being with her again, it was like being home. how she had missed it -- how it soothed the ache in her chest, how it quieted her darkest thoughts. she would never be lost again so long as ruoxi was there to guide her back.

rhyaenna lifted the sleeves of her dress to wipe at her tears. she was still crestfallen, but needed to explain before ruoxi burned the entire court in her name. "no, it was no such thing," she said. "i entered my name. no one knew. not even mother." especially not sloane. "i couldn't live under her thumb any longer, ruoxi." defeated and tired, like she had aged many years in so few moments. "i had to try and make something of myself on my own. to show her i needed no one to be great." it was a fool's errand. she hadn't thought it through, but anger had clouded her judgement.

with her head, she'd pay the price for her impulsiveness.

"and now i may die." it was what became of all those who sought power. one way or another, they would meet their demise. "i only hope to be returned to bàba." she didn't know what awaited her in the next life. all she knew was that she wanted to feel his embrace once more. she wanted to see the glow of his smile. she wanted to hear him call her yue, the moon in his sky -- the way he always did. lovingly, reverently. like she had placed it there herself. then, she could rest peacefully. she only wished she had more time -- with ruoxi and with all those who had once touched what remained of her heart.

[prodigxlis]

“They have been gone for quite a while, Yue.” The words come through gritted teeth, but still she lets the tears dampen her silks, reach the skin of her shoulders. Her own mouth twist and her eyes wish to burn, but instead she bites her lips and bears it, bears the weight of Rhyaenna’s grief—as it should’ve been, long ago. And yet time has embittered duty, curdled it like rotten milk. Apologies now barely sweetened it enough for her to swallow it down, and it sat heavy and gross in her gut. “I see.” Her sunlit gaze narrows. “You are sorry now after weeping in my arms.” And yet, even if her voice is more like a hiss, she does not let go yet. “Easy to think most of one-self, easier to say sorry afterwards, hm? Didn’t I teach you that?” It is only after she has made sure that Rhyaenna can stand by herself that she steps back, retreats a small distance yet again. “And so this is the only answer you could think with that pretty head of yours, Yue?” Oh, this is truly worth the laughter that comes pouring from her. “This,” She gestures to her quarters, to Elaris, to Heliophra itself. “Is too good for you? Only the throne shall slake your thirst? If you had come when my father died, then—” There would’ve been something, here, where other people were supposed to be; instead of the loneliness that had followed even in her hearth, as if it was not just her father who had now become ashes. “And for what? Yes, let us be great, as if it is not all in flames as of yet.” So dramatic. Too dramatic. “You dare?” It is not hard to grab her by the clothes now, to shake her, when saying such ill omens about herself. “Who is this weak girl? If they give you the crown, then simply tell them to keep it to their damned selves. Refuse.” Then come here, she thought, simply come here and I shall give you the succor you would not deem me worthy of, and that I can no longer trust. How long had she waited for Rhyaenna to apologize, if only for Ruoxi to embrace the satisfaction of her own laughter? But had she known what she would’ve done with it, while waiting? It is only now that she knows that emptiness follows, a growing pit chasing her all the way from the sun into the shade. Her own care now, unable to not be given, feels as if thrown into the mud—and Rhyaenna’s warmth is but a pale imitation, colder than the memory of what it used to be. “Do not let them take your head by placing such a cursed thing on it. Or are you too afraid to truly make your own way? This obsessed with being adored that it is only that or death? You dare to wish to meet our fathers again, instead of living.” The stain they had become in life, that they have been spared of seeing in the grave. “You’ve become cowardly, Rhyaenna.”

[wanshangs]

it's frustrating, how well she knows which strings to pluck. how can she know what will prompt a reaction out of them so well, when they haven't even spoken before? is this a talent they are unaware of? a gift from malrith? no, that's ridiculous. a huff of breath leaves their mouth at the questions, trying not to make it clear that she is spot on when it comes to those deductions. "i do not see any benefit in proving myself to you -" the words are a bit stilted this time, the line of their shoulders tense. "you don't need a pen or a sword if you can speak your way out of it." a battle every now and then is deemed necessary by many, but orion believes diplomacy could solve a great number of issues without any need for blood to be shed. they manage to remain straight-faced when she points out her ability to read, and stop another rebute at the tip of their tongue from how childish it would sound. the offer of a price, however, is surprising; they purse their lips in thought. the frustration abates momentarily, wondering if she indeed has any information that's of value. could they be so lucky enough to turn this around? they are not sure, and decide to tread carefully. "i think we both know you are not." a silly lost lady that is, even if they do not know her, it's clearly an act of a greater mind than she lets on. they twist their face at the mention of honor, for they do not believe shamelessness and honor can be in the same body. though they are much too curious about the bait to start another round of bickering back and forth. "what do you think you have to offer? all i know- this could be another way of you trying to learn more out of me-"

[prodigxlis]

Her brow raises. “Speak, then—weave your pretty words, convince me. As of now, there is no great case you are making for yourself.” Ruoxi shrugs, now dangling the heavy book from the pinch of her pointer and thumb, careless of its precious pages. “I could throw this away, make it wretched before you ever thought to touch it again. Or do you believe me incapable?” Perhaps she was, maybe not. “Hm.” She acknowledges with simply that, before her gaze narrows. “What do I have to offer? A good question—but you are mistaken. I am already learning you. A fiery temper under that pretty face, isn’t there? A quick tongue but little defense. Unlucky thing, you are, to run into me.” It is not meant to be cruel, but Ruoxi was ever too direct as to not aim at the heart. Cornered, and yet they strike, baring their soft underbelly. They are lucky, then, that Ruoxi chooses to sidestep rather than pierce. “And yet, you have caught me.”

Quickly, she does a trick usually only done with daggers—flips the book by the edge of it with her fingertip, until it is once again resting in her palm. “Why lie about where my interest truly lies? A book is a book.” Ruoxi presents it back to them with a flourish, and a bow. “I can throw it away because it is the mind that can read it that I find more intriguing yet. Your words have led you somewhere—does that please you?” “I can offer you a deal, wordsmith: an answer for an answer. My name,” She pauses, smile unfurling in her red lips. “Is Fenglian Ruoxi, and I am here in duty and search. And what—” She steps closer, just a single step, to peer at them—curious and too sharp for it. “Are you truly here for?”

[mortifere]

Vaelor  falls,  with  his  better  judgement,  into  a  lapse  of  silence,  and  somewhere,  he  can  feel  the  walls  groaning,  warping  around  them  like  old  wounds  as  the  dust  settles  in  front  of  them.  Still,  through  it  all,  and  through the  almost  tear  strained  track  of  Ásta’s  face,  he  remains  in  his  cocoon  of  repose;  with  his  lips  clamped  shut,  his  eyes  withheld  from  their  gaze  and  the  silvery  gold  of  their  hair. 

Did  such  poison  seep  through  their  bloodline, he thinks, as the  thought  arrives  practically  unbidden.  Like  damp  creeping  through  stone,  quiet  and  insidious,  unable  to  be  driven  out.  For even now, Vaelor  does  not  turn  to  look  at  them,  and  his  back  stays  still,   shoulders  squared  towards  the  soft  sanded  wall  of  their  accommodation.  It  was  a  pale  thing,  with  a  fawn  like  palette,  poetic  and  pastoral  as  his  eyes  drift  to  nothing  in  particular,  and  through  it  all,  his gaze stays  clear  from  theirs.

With  eyes  transfixed,  the laughter of children comes to him in a fog as he  thinks  of  them  as  fledglings;  where  on  rare  days  they  ran  through  the  abandoned  dragon  caves  that  were  carved  deep  into  the  mountains,  each  of  their  fingerprints  etched  into  the  granite,  huddled  beneath  fur  and  the  wisps  of  wind.  Back  when  they  were  all  unearthed,  and  Ivar’s  corpse  was  still  warm,  and  his  lungs  still  breathed  into  his  flesh  and  blood.  But  such  was  the  cruelty  of  youth  that  required  such  a  weight,  for  a  bloodline  like  theirs  could  only  remain  an  anomaly. Still,  they  were  children  of  the  mountains,  and  thus  the  peaks  were  never  a  labyrinth,  but  a  true  breathing  anatomy  of  stone,  with every  trail  sculptured through an  artery  they  knew  by  heart.  And  did  not,  in  those  same  hearts,  lay  their  contemplation?  For  a  cold,  dreadful  feeling  suddenly  runs  through  his  skull,  and  it  takes  all  his  strength  to  hold  his  own  tongue  on  a  leash.

" If  I  could  leave  it  be,  I  would  have  done  so  already. "  No  guilt  churns  in  his  gut,  though  still,  Vaelor  turns  with  his  salt  eyes  cloaked  in  condolement.  Silence  stretches,  and  a  wound  takes  shape,  demanding  the  price  for  penance  once  again.  When  Ásta  blurs  their  own  tears,  Vaelor  hands  twitch  by  his  side;  and  he  stays  inhabited  in  his  own  motionless  limbs,  like  frost  upon  a  winter  branch,  steady  yet  mistful.  " Your  blood  is  no  less  mountain  born  than  mine,  Ásta.  Nor  are  you  less  dragon  born. "  He  searches  for  their  eyes.  " You  have  the  blood.  The  name.  But  you  chase  ghosts  when  I  need  you  to  be  stone. "  For  they  truly  were  a  lineage  of  burdens,  yet  they  had  known  great  dragons  in  their  blood. 

Vaelor  feels  it  prick  immediately,  the  entrance  slip  of  the  ice,  a  deep  carved  wound  right  into  his  sternum.  For  a  moment,  there  is  only  the  ringing  of  his  ears,  and  the  rush  of  his  blood  leaving  him  both  cold  and  heatwarmed.  He  clenches  his  jaw.  " There  is  it. "  He  spits  out,  and  a  hand  wraps  around  each  chamber  of  his  heart.  " I  have  been  waiting  for  this.  For  you  to  flee  with  the  first  mist  of  rain. " A breath.  " This  is  not  humility,  Ásta.  This  is  blindness. "  Vaelor  lets  the  accusation  hang.  " Go if you must, the burden is yours. "  Still, he feels it all the same; the press across his throat.

[prodigxlis]

To weep with no comfort is a different sort of coldness—and so Ásta had fled from it by finding it somewhere else, instead, down in crevices where none could see, before crawling back to Draegor’s stern stone. They had never found fault in it for it, but rather fault in themselves. Delicate yet stubborn skin where only that soft and spoon-fed made its way in. How could Ásta find fault in Vaelor’s words, despite how hard they were for Ásta to understand? A wise guidance that escaped them even as they turn it in their head again and again. It was a kindness of its own, then, met by a sniff, that Vaelor at least was willing still to lie about the dragon-blood that had always been so sorely lacking. But the rest stumps them, for how? How to be made of stone? “But it feels like I can’t.” A feeble complaint, irritating and worthy of their further cringing. “This—this goes beyond fine mist! How can you say that?” They stand, hands clenching into fists; anger is foreign in those dark eyes of theirs, but it comes now, even if hand-in-hand with despair. “If I must? If I must? Do I have to?!” Another riddle from a stone-sphynx, cold-eyed. “How—How can you say that when I—I’ve never left and now you—Where would I even go?!” It tastes like ash in their mouth. There are many places that would take them with open arms and little question, but each and every one was cruelly dismissed in that very moment, not even a thought—for how could anywhere where they turned their eyes away from Vaelor—from Ivar’s memory—be a place where they ever could be? The love was a burden carried, yet unfathomable to put down.

“I cannot see what you see! I do not understand the things you do.” Point and tell me, but also do not, for Ásta would most likely let him down. The fear is paralyzing, but staying still, Ásta remains weeping. “You can but I cannot—but I thought. I still thought that I could do something. How can you ask me to go? How can I—How can I stay and just watch?!”

[wanshangs]

the agreement about a father's presence is simple, but the meaning behind it is anything but. what good are some truths when brought to light? it brings no relief to hear cian agree to it, for it is without any emotion behind it. the wrongness that lian cannot help but feel is only amplified the more the younger speaks. his face twists at the statement, wanting to ask and probe as to what could be occupying kaelen's time if not his only son — yet he knows better this time. knows it will not help in any way to lay the truth in front of them. the frustration that bleeds into cian's words reaches his ears, and he tries to give it the benefit of the doubt. he cannot let it get to him, not when cian is grieving, not when he has lost his mother. lian's hands clench one another on top of his lap, nails digging into his palms. the next words are too smooth, too dry- unlike the boy he knows. "no- wait- tell me the truth, please." the idea is frightening enough that despite all his instincts, he still asks. "are you- are you in trouble?" could this have to do with what he has been picking up all this time? sheng's disappearances and the whispers that reach his ears? is it too much of a distance to jump? "i know i don't have to. i want to —" the truth spills out, a hint of apprehension in them, a gut-feeling that something will go wrong. just as he has been fearing. while he opens his mouth to continue, it's cut short by what comes next; a dam that he did not know was there— breaks. words in the form of knives dig into his skin. a whimper is bit back, teeth sink into his lip as he listens. that's all he can do. his biggest choices, and perhaps mistakes, laid in front of him, bare to see. cruel in a way he never knew cian to be. don't cry- don't cry. in a blink, he's back home again, trying to bite back tears that burn at the back of his eyes. trying to turn back time to stop them from spilling over crimson cheeks. being told that he is too soft, too useless in who he is. this is not new; he remembers now. how he had learned how to sit straight, how to ground himself just long enough not to cry in front of everyone. these tactics didn't always work- and with a lack of exercise now, he doesn't know if they will. he still tries. teeth sink into his lip, long and hard enough to break the skin, to fill his mouth with a taste of iron. nails dig into the palm of his hands more now, to distract himself with it, rather than how much it guts him to hear cian talk about him this way. is this how the younger always thought of him? a deserter, selfish enough not to care about any of them? a terrible friend- or no, not a friend at all, an abomination. why does it parrot all his greatest fears? what can he say now? tears are barely at bay, yet the tracks are still there, as are the broken pieces of his heart that were offered on his sleeve. survival instincts tell him to run away, to get away right now, like he did back in those days as soon as he got a chance. but wouldn't that prove cian's point? and he can't- even if he wanted to- for the broken pieces still pulse, despite their own pain, in immense concern for him. in a selfless attempt, they try to pick and choose what to respond to. there is only so much breath left in his chest, so much strength to speak. it's impossible not to let his voice waver, not to let the tears fall. he barely succeeds. "i- i'm here because i care about you. you're not a weight- you- you're my friend." the word carries mountains for him, but he does not know if it does for cian. nails dig harder into his skin, hidden behind his hands, away from sight. he cannot touch, cannot convince him, no matter how much he tries.

"you're right- i don't care about the crown. i- i care about you." it's difficult to keep eye contact, to not cower as cian leans closer. but lian's had practice. it's built in him to stand straight, to be able to stay, while all he wants is to disappear. he wants to disappear now, but not as much as he wants for cian to be okay. "i'm sorry if... if i made you think i wouldn't stay-" through a blurry vision, he searches cian's face for a sign, did he ever want lian to say? did it matter? lian never thought it would. maybe he was wrong all along. he ends up apologizing again, which is what made cian angry in the first place. he cannot stop it; it spills over. "if i can help- i would- i will stay." it's a promise as the broken pieces pulse once more. letting themself be trampled in a futile attempt to comfort.

[prodigxlis]

The truth? The truth? “Do you believe my mother’s death was nothing but a tragic incident, that the dagger plunged into her heart by itself? Something did it. I could not—” It breaks like a bone, and he sets it back with gritted teeth. “I could not stop it.” He hisses. “But I can find who it was.” To do anything else would be a disservice to her, to allow the stain to further spread after his failure. Cian would always carry the shame and mark of not having been strong enough to protect her, due to his own weakness, this softness that had no place here, but he could still do this. This, he had left when nothing else stayed. The grief hurts to see like tearing off skin. Cian can only watch what he has brought by his own hands, sitting by Lian’s side and yet so, so far away. I’m a monster, he thinks, but this he should’ve known. Had spent so long with the void within his head and looking into it, grasping at it in attempts to understand, that it makes sense that at one point it became one with himself. Lian was made of kinder, nicer things. At one point, Cian had been able to pretend to be of the same and nothing else, so that he, too, would be loved. Now, he couldn’t even bear to. You deserve better than me. There, a despair so deep that it finally brings a tear that slips silently, that is followed by nothing else, like scraping the bottom of an empty barrel where no more would be left. Lian, his mother, someone else whose name was like the sun that he could not bear to think nor touch—and his father. They all deserved better, but only got him. Lian should’ve never come. The distance in his eyes and his voice is unfathomable, even as they meet Lian’s own. “I am whatever happens to the crown. All these things that you are too good for, these are the things I am.” It did not matter that he would not be allowed to have it—it would take more wisdom that he believed the council to ever have. No, Cian would be a whisper within the walls, and would take over his father’s seat as to not allow himself to be ignored, but would be more, besides that, on hands that would sand off the edges of him and make him fit, even if bloodied. The offer befuddles him, truly makes him look shocked for a moment before it breaks into laughter, loud and miserable. Did he think Cian had never thought before of asking, of begging? Of submitting Lian to that which made Cian less of whatever he had been, every day? That he did not know Lian’s nature was so easily caged because of that same kindness? It was the reason why Cian’s was only but a pale imitation—because he could cage himself and not blink, but Lian would be nothing if torn apart from it. Keep him? For what? So that the pain would stretch out for longer and longer yet, until Lian withered and grew to hate. Until they saw they had stayed for nothing but some cruel and scattered thing. I cannot have you, let alone deserve you. “What use do I have for you?” Cian shakes his head. “Just go.”

[decthless-a]

The devastation of his kiss is a force greater than any clashing of swords he has ever withstood; he can feel the blood rushing to his cheek, unbidden as his tears mix with the blood on his face; and the heat that climbs up by his body, up his chest, as his mouth clashes against his, red hot and angry, as violent as the tide against a steep rock—he is paralyzed for a moment, in the wake of all of its rage and all of its love, all blended into a single, killing blow where his pride collapses upon itself.

Those honed blue eyes widen, suddenly; unwitting, looking into its mismatched pair with utter and sheer confusion. Must his mouth always be so at odds with everything he does? "Hate you..." it sounds so foolish to hear it out loud—he almost laughs; can't grasp the feeling, think of i at all, when he has his weight pressing him covering him like a blanket. How ridiculous it sounds, can he not hear it? "You truly are helpless, you know that? Helpless—" he will not allow him to dry the blood, it will stay—just as the taste of him will stay. He pulls him, into himself, greedy and unrelenting, using all of his force to hold him hostage, giving into every impulse he's ever had—he bites down into his throat, mindful that his flesh is much too tender still, and there is nothing in him that wishes to harm Cian, no impulse, no hidden frustration or residual anger could ever make him resort to such a thing. Nothing. He just wants to bruise him all over, in such a shameless way he cannot move without seeing the shape of his mouth everywhere his eyes turn to. Is this what he must do? Remind him—her, by force, of whom he truly belongs to?

"Cian," he breathes against his skin, unlatching himself grudgingly—a trail of spit clinging to his mouth, all the sorrow that name evokes lodged in his throat. "I cannot. I cannot hate you. I could never hate you..." He says it in defeat, like a creature battered and bruised. Is that what he thought? That he hated him? That he was capable of it at all? He does laugh now, in a short, sharp exhale. "Don't you understand? Must I spell it out for you?" he sounds annoyed, his hand having forgotten entirely of the sword—why cling to it, when he had him to cling to now? How could he not forget everything else, every grievance, every wound he had made in him, with this weeping boy on his lap, all flushed and teary eyed. "You are a mess—" selfishly, he adores every second of it, every moment. He adjusts himself against the headboard, hands gripping at his waist, sitting him proper, carding his fingers through his locks as if to soothe him. "Listen to me..." he dismisses his apologies, wiping the tears from those beautiful, swollen eyes, capable of so easily bring him to his knees; he pushes his knees between his legs, anchoring him, bringing him impossibly closer, where his fingertips sweep against those long, red lashes. "I am yours, and only yours... I cannot part from you. If you wish to sit in that accursed throne and place yourself in danger, I will throw myself at every blade that comes your way—and nothing will touch you, because I will not allow it." he covers the boy's mouth—he does not want to hear it. "No—I said listen," he will not hear of being saved, of being rescued; he has. He is. He will bite that stubborn mouth if it dares speak such nonsense in his presence again. "I will sit and watch you make the whole world a victim of your sorrow, because I'm powerless against you—if you want me on my knees, you will have it. If you want me to be your sword, and only that... you will have it. All I ask of you is do not to be cruel to yourself," he releases his mouth, then, cautiously, carefully, his thumb brushing against the softness of it—coveting it. "Please, be kind to you... please, I beg of you... please, be gentle," he begs shamelessly, openly now, the arch of his nose pressing into line of the boy's jaw in quiet supplication. "You are my heart, Cian... will you spare my heart?" his eyes close, for a moment of respite—he inhales him, and his hand tremble with a different kind of weakness. Restraint, he finds, is a delicate rope, carefully unwinding.

What is he to do with him now?

"I want—" he bites his tongue; he is a weapon, and weapons are not allowed to want. Still, he wants him, he wants him desperately, terribly, unconditionally. What is he to do with himself? "I want you. Not... the masks you put on for others... not whomever it is you think you have to become to be loved... to be worthy. You are loved... you are worthy. There is nothing you want you do not deserve... a thousand times over. And noise in your ear... this noise—it just that. It is just noise." for a moment he things his jaw will unhinge, and he will swallow him whole. Why has he come? How could he let him hold him like this, taste him like this, and then ask to be let go? He was so very unreasonable, his Cian. Always had been. It makes him smile, to think of him, and all of his cruel demands. And all of the promises he had scattered to the wind. Does it matter? Does he love him any less now? Would he love him any less with a knife to his throat? "I love you... so much," the words bob in his throat, thick, hard to swallow. "...all of you—every piece, every inch, every flaw you think you have to hide..." That face, that weeping face—he kisses it, kisses his ruddy cheeks and his tears, with a desperate hunger to soothe him. "You need not say sorry... not to me. Not ever." He is forgiven, he is absolved—there is never too great of a crime, because he can do no wrong in his eyes, can he? He would come to him, over and over, and he would have nothing but love to offer back. Where is all of his rage, all of his resentment, when he comes for him?

"Oh, Cian... I know. I know you're so hurt... and you're so angry... it's okay to be angry," he cups that wet face like something delicate, fragile; as though he had now bitten into him like a rabid dog, he soothes him, and his heart melts anew. "I was cruel... I was mean, I deserve it. You can be angry with me, all you want... I'll keep your anger as well as your love, there's enough room in me for all of you," and if there wasn't, hed empty himself, and he'd make room. There is no piece of him he would not give him if asked, can he not see that? His loyalties were not split, they had never been—everything he does, he does for him. Even his distance. Even when it was cruel. Clasping that bruised wrist tight, he brings his hand to his sternum, pressing it against the faded scars there. "This right here—it's yours—take it, fill it with whatever it is you need to bear this... but don't you dare leave my side again, you hear me? Don't you dare harm yourself and use my name as an excuse, don't you dare give yourself to another when I have not given you permission," the hand tightens, tugging him, demanding to be heard—and loosens, subservient as his mouth finds the bruise it had made in his throat, placated by the urge to soothe him, to empty the vows of his mouth in a kiss, and then another. "You are mine, always mine... I will not let you go again, do you understand?"

[prodigxlis]

Teeth close around his neck and hold him in place, and his pulse thrums rabbit-quick; hare under jaws, bird held in the palm of someone’s hands. It hurts, hurts differently, hurts in a way that makes him still and his lips part, makes a noise leave him from where he is caught. His fists clench, eyes wet and glazed from the pain, submerged by the warmth that spreads down and makes him taut. This helplessness feels like absolution. After, he touches where it is already reddening and where he can feel the imprint digging deep, foretelling of the lingering mark that will follow. “Why didn’t you break skin?” Cian murmurs, always wanting for something that would last longer yet. I wished you to, and wonders if he can make it happen again.

The daze remains, as so he can only hear the words and not say anything yet, still yet in a snare. It is hard to believe the words are meant for him at all, and yet there was nobody else there. His heart opens like a bloom and all good and bad pours. He did not know there existed something like this, too—that alongside that cruel certainty could exist this wretched hope, something that you would struggle to believe but that burrowed itself under either way because you wished for it too much to let go of it. Cian had thought he had made Sheng up in his head so many times, and yet he was real, and better than any dream. As if the world had said here it is, and given him life before death would come. He didn’t understand the why yet.

There is wisdom when Sheng covers Cian’s mouth, for any fault found within Sheng is what would make him break out of his stupor. A weapon? He could never—but a reminder of the words they had said strikes him further dumb. Love, he had said before, but Cian can admit to himself he had not believed it. Now, he struggles furthermore, but it digs deeper. Wants it so much it burns. He doesn’t speak yet, dumbstruck by the pleading when it was him who had begged.

“You were cruel.” Finally, he says. “You were not supposed to leave and—you are not meant to speak of yourself that way either. You are not a sword. You’re you. Sheng, I—” They are grasping at each other everywhere they can reach, so entangled and unable to part. “Please don’t go again. Please mean it when you say you will not let me go. It feels like there is nowhere where I can exist that is not your heart.” He admits.“Please don’t take me away from me. Don’t leave, because I go everywhere you go, and I’m nothing if you leave me behind. Because I don’t—” Cian sobs again, swallows as to not let the tears interrupt his words. He holds on as if letting go would mean death, and it might as well. “I don’t—I don’t know how. I don’t know.” How to not be cruel towards myself, how to be anything at all. “But I get so close when I’m with you.”

Somewhere within, he knows he cannot promise himself to Sheng and keep his pledge both. Being a Garramoth meant protecting Nocturnia, and it was a knighthood in all but a vow, instead carried by the veins that ran through himself. But he wants to figure it out, and he does not if that is yet delusion. Just that he wants so much that the softer waves now drag him under, that the noise that promises something worse if he lets go now mutes. For a moment it seems worth it, it feels worth it. It is enough for the stone to start to crack, and the weaker flesh to show.

When their hands come over Sheng’s heart, Cian stills, then intertwines their fingers and clasps tight. “I do not know how not to hurt your heart.” He has not said this many truths since the same night they parted. “But I want to learn. I want to learn, I want to know how to keep you whole and still yet safe. I want to—I want to be yours as well.” Flushes at the admittance, shy despite the blood and his place on the man’s lap. “The way—The way you want me to be yours. Can that—can that mean something? Is it something? That I want to but I do not know how. I don’t know how to be free of the rest, not yet. Please.”

“Please…” He settles close, their pulses beating against one another. Feels Sheng’s own lips brush against his cheeks, his throat again, softer and yet still aching, on his eyelids where even there he is not even spared. Cian kisses back—his nose, the corner of his eye, his jaw where he wished it would cut. Brings Sheng’s wounded hand to his mouth and peppers him with kisses, and then longer and lingering brushes of his lips. His throat is throbbing still, and he was right—the ache feels different when it is from his hands, when it is given like this. It spreads and makes Cian drunk on it. “Please, please, please…” Cian sighs from deep within him, dreamy and pleased, and the brush turns into kitten-licks, tasting the blood of the wound as he rocks against Sheng slightly, lost further in the heat where their hips meet.

[wanshangs]

a breath half taken, anger hardly hidden underneath their expression. the proximity grows more and more uncomfortable, and they feel seconds away from actually pushing her away, as ungentlemanly as it would be, as much trouble as it might cause with her house. "i do not know if there is anything worth admiration here. at least this close, my vision is obscured." while she is likely attractive if one could look upon her objectively, orion has been much too offended and disturbed by her actions to have an impartial opinion. at the very least, they find her utterly annoying- which should be a record considering how little they know each other. bright eyes and red lips come closer and closer, shaping around words that orion finds simply too crude. their eyes briefly shut close in an attempt to calm their nerves from actually pushing her away — before they hear the sounds of soles leaving the floor, a flutter of robes as the woman in question jumps to reach the book they were holding. the surprise is palpable on their face as it twists, and they are too wrapped in surprise by the shameful act to react to it. their eyes widen, lips turning into an 'oh', before it changes again, as if they have tasted something sour, witnessed an unseemly action. if she is not shamed by what she has done, they don't necessarily know what to do with it. the hand quietly falls back to their side before they fold their arms in front of their chest. at least, now that she isn't glued to their side, they can breathe a bit easier. the fact that they have been caught in action isn't pleasant, but orion still tries to act as if they haven't. "what it means?" they balk at her words, the false act of pleasantry mostly out of the window by now. "if you are shameless enough to steal a book from my hands, one would hope you could also read it." a pause to take deep breath, they do not want to play her game. "you can read, right?"

[prodigxlis]

“Ouch! Are your words always as sharp as any dagger? Ah, but they must be, when lacking the real thing. Those delicate hands of yours have never wielded a blade, have they?” Though Ruoxi would’ve wished to see such, indeed. Always had a fascination for seeing those that never had take their first steps into that most brutal, if to see them take to it like ducks upon the water, or flinch from it like those from kinder ilk. “No, those elegant fingers of yours only know of paper-cuts… Or am I wrong?” Ruoxi did not touch him, nor get closer again; but rather hoped her words grazed nonetheless. To see the hackles rise further, and not simply out of malice. The sun did not allow her to become even too comfortable under its might, after all—there was wisdom in knowing one’s limits. She usually learnt it by standing under the light until it burned. “I can read.” She places the book under her arm, further away from his grasp, and raises her chin and shrugs. “But alas, deeper meanings escape me. I’m such a silly lost lady, you see, and need someone to gleam the true meaning of it for me. You won’t take mercy on me?” Her eyes crinkle. “Or is it that you wish for something back? It is only fair, and after all… I am a woman of honor.” One that looked forward to laughing at the way the face of this liege would twist at hearing her say that. “Speak your price.”

[moonvcils]

"i do not know," she exhaled, shaking her head. "they could have been biding their time, they could've have sprung up right when we were in moira castle. all i know is that i do not believe the assailants that have attacked us twice now, are not the ones that set the fire in my family's library." the cause and intention did not make sense. at least not in her mind. at her core, she was still confident that it was the council that had been behind the ruin of the knowledge within the citadel.

watching him turn from her and draw his focus to fountain before them, seren found herself moving to take a seat on the edge of the fountain, watching the water ripple. she understood what he was asking her. what he was saying about those that were somewhere out there, planning the demise of her and her loved ones. and yet she found she couldn't speak the word aloud either.

after a moment, she stopped looking at the water and turned her attention back to lord garramoth. "i am a woman of facts and logic. i find it hard to have blind faith. but that does not mean i will turn away a potential outcome just because it is not something i have not seen or experienced." just because she had not personally used magic, did not mean others hadn't. "my plan is to continue searching for answers. in every place i visit, i search library's and archives for information that may breed new theories or answers. unfortunately my search has not proved to be fruitful, but that does not mean i will stop looking." she ran her fingertips through the water lightly as she sighed. "perhaps i am merely looking in the wrong place."

she thought for only a moment before asking, "have you found anything out on your own? any potential information that may help guide my research?"

[prodigxlis]

“Odd that the belief your family used to keep seems foreign to you, odder still that you wish to find an answer nonetheless. Celembron keeps records as well.” His head tilts. “And yet they remain unscathed. But then again, their histories never had the reputation of sacred—not as much as the ones your family has left to keep safe.” Cian knew of keeping one’s duty out of a fervent righteousness, but his was borne out of a faith that had come out of the womb clutching his hand, like a twin none could see. If not belief, what drove her? Justice? Or revenge? When he speaks again, it does not seem like an answer, not at first. “Braxigar has always stood aside from all the other Hollows. It is said that there is a madness that runs through us, but is madness not simply what others refuse to understand, to consider?” He shrugs such a worry away. “Outsiders are as welcome within our borders as we are without them: that is to say, not at all. No—the knife they wield is not wielded by velkynar hands, but rather shadows that creep. They are everywhere.” The coin feels cold in his hand as it closes around it, grips it tight. “Nowhere is beyond their reach. That is all that I know.” “All-in-all,” Cian smiles at her. “Dreadfully little. Here, Lady Tenelith.” Cian extends an open palm to her, the gold glinting on his hand. “Do you want to make a wish, or does your logic refuse you even to hope?”

[wanshangs]

there is something wrong. perhaps more than what lian could have guessed, more than what he feared. the air is stagnant; something stale clings to it, unlike the familiar throes of grief he has witnessed before. there is something wrong with the air, and there is something wrong with cian — when compared to the boy he knows. yet how cruel is it to judge one in grief? in sorrow? it makes him feel guilty to think such things, yet it's also impossible to stop the odd feeling that churns at the bottom of his stomach. the hands in between his pull away, and he manages not to look hurt for it. the same guilt is there: he cannot be the one to decide how to comfort cian, not when it's his pain, and not lian's. as such, the young nuwa returns his hands back to his lap, and strings them together. the admission is as surprising as it is painful, and it's easy to see both on his face. through the heart that pulses on his sleeve. from the way his eyes widen, his eyebrows furrow. times like these are when family needs to stick together, not leave one another in grief, as it only magnifies in solitude. kaelen has always been an intimidating figure to lian, yet for the first time in his life, he considers talking to him willingly. the thought half-forms, before it's pushed aside by the wish to comfort. "i'm... i'm sorry, cian-" how good is it if this is all he can say? he cannot reach to touch, knowing it's not welcome. "he's- i think —" the words stumble upon one another, trying to find the right ones yet failing. "he should be here for you as well- and you for him. i'm sorry he isn't." grief isn't scripted, he knows, let alone one of a life partner- yet he wishes cian would have his father to help him through this time. the question is what only makes the feeling in his gut churn uglier. causes a knee-jerk reaction, in the form of a quick few blinks, a minute pull of himself backward, as if slapped across the face. he recovers quickly, the guilt and sorrow for cian too strong to pick up on any ill intent. only when it's phrased as a problem does his face twist; surprise and pain are impossible to hide. a hitch of breath that borders on a whimper, a quick shake of his head. "it's- it's not a - " problem. and lian cannot even bring himself to call it that. valeria was a lovely woman, and to reduce her death in definition to a problem is unfathomable. he tries to school his expression, the tears, he really tries- the guilt pulls him back to his place, but his emotions are difficult to take hold of. worry begins to rise, that initial assumption that something is wrong, is only amplified by what he is seeing. the words do not help with that, and his eyebrows furrow further. while he does not touch cian now, he leans forward when he speaks. as if he can figure out what's going on in his head, from proximity alone. "what do you mean, dangerous?" another piece missing, making him more and more confused. "i want to be here for you- no matter what." this time, it's said with a bit more resolution, and less tears. the patting and reassurance coming from cian is the nail on the head as he coils back to himself, unable to act as if he hasn't been hit. the guilt returns in a flood, mixing with embarrassment and pure shame. "i- i'm not- i'm not here to cry-" what kind of friend is he? letting cian comfort him when it's his mother who has died? how despicable can he become? "i'm sorry- i didn't mean to —" he pulls back further now on the couch, face in his hands, and takes a deep breath. a minute passes, maybe less, maybe more. he's fucking this up- he's fucking it all up — and with rough hands that wipe away the tears, he finds the will to look back at cian again. "i'm sorry- if i made you feel like you have to comfort me. that's- it's not alright." a shake of his head, lips pursed, he won't take any disagreements for what he has said. "i just wanted to make sure... you were alright- and if- if there is anything i can do to be here for you."

[prodigxlis]

It is obvious that the edge of his words manages to cut—Lian had always been so easy to read, kind and open in all the ways Cian ached to bask in and to grasp both. There is a sick satisfaction for it, one accompanied by a revulsion strong enough that he almost hurls. His own wickedness is no surprise, and yet Cian stiffens further. “He should.” It is simple to agree, but the world does not follow such easy logics. So many shoulds and shouldn’ts. Cian should’ve been less of an oddity, and Lian should’ve felt more welcome within his own halls. Back then, such unfairness being something they shared had led to ridiculous, embarrassing notions. The way a child dreams of dragons or sunny skies or life blooming from rotten earth, Cian had thoughts that maybe they could—that for one another, perhaps, in lieu of what they should’ve—but Lian had left and Cian had grown out of that, little by little, with each visit that left him stuck where he was, and them far away. “He should, but he is otherwise preoccupied.” With other people, less disappointing than him, surely. Family, belonging. Those things were meant for someone else. The crying irritates him. Cian tries to dig his nails into his palms so the pain will have a use, and yet his crimson eyes remain dry. Fury starts to bring an unpleasant humming in his head, and already he knows he must hide it, lest Lian continue to soothe him like the gentle creature he believes Cian to be. It is difficult, but it becomes easier for a moment, then, when Cian realizes he had spoken too much. “I meant nothing by it.” Too smooth, and his face too suddenly blank. “And I said you do not have to be.” How many times did he have to repeat it until Lian got the hint? Another, it seems. Again and again offers of succor and support he cannot take and cannot accept anymore, can only feel close but know as the mirage they are while longing for them with his heart. The cruelty of it—it makes him so sick. “For how long?” His head tilts, face of nothing besides a small tension around his brow, around his eyes that are a bit too wide to be innocent in such a misplaced question. “Hm? How long will this help of yours be here for me? A day? A week? Two?” Cian laughs. “You say I have you, but for how long until I become a weight tied to your ankle? If you did not wish for me to comfort you.” He hisses. “Then perhaps you should not cry.”

“Why did you come, Lian?” He leans forward and closer, now. His voice drops to a vicious whisper, unrelenting despite the tears, and worse for it. “What could the matter of the crown mean to you? It will not stop you from leaving. Even were Nocturnia to fall into pieces, you could still travel and see the places where the cracks have formed. Turn your head away from this. So why did you come?”

[wanshangs]

the boy is stiff and limp in lian's arms, and although he wants to keep him there, safe and away from what has happened, he knows it is a ridiculous thought. instead, he pulls back, yet gentle hands remain on his shoulders, before dropping to his sides, hovering over his elbows. it's too late- too late to protect him from it, too late to turn back time. to see him this distant and out of it frightens lian to no end. that is the reason why he does not pull back completely, as if by physical presence alone, he can pull cian back from where his mind has wandered off to, from the edge of a cliff, from deep in the woods where there is no solace. at the words, a wounded noise involuntarily leaves his throat, before he purses his lips shut. tears have always come to him too easily, as if it is a glass always full, and can tip at the barest of tremors. he pushes against the burn at the back of their eyes- how absurd would it be, to be the one to cry, when it is cian who has lost his mother, who stays there, unmoving, distant. lian's hands move down his arms and take his hands in his own, squeezing tight, trying to will the warmth back through their fingers, as if it can bring the same warmth to the young garramoth, if it is possible at all. a lump remains lodged in his throat, and he takes a few seconds not to cry before he responds. "i- she- she was always lovely." and if the last word breaks at the end, maybe it will slip away unnoticed. it's a lost battle fighting the tears and the fear that grips him, and he tries to pull cian further inside the room. "come on- come back here, let's- let's sit down." perhaps a futile, unimportant attempt- yet lian has always been the one that hopes. foolishly so, stupidly so- he thinks love can save them all. once they sit down, he takes both of cian's hands in his own, sitting at the edge of his seat, one side glued to his. there is an urgency to his movements, the kind that comes from being helpless in the face of the pain of someone you love. the slip of cian's tongue, the mix between the past and the present is what gets to him. as tears fill his eyes, shame mixes with all the sorrow and fear. "i'm- i'm sorry, cian." he tilts his head forward to evade his eyes, pressing his forehead against the top of their hands. "we are - we are here for you. i am here for you." the words are broken as he tries to will away the tears that fall upon their hands, a losing battle against a stream. once he raises his head again, he removes one of his hands to haphazardly wipe away at his eyes, angered by his own reaction. "is there- is there anything i can do? anything at all?"

[prodigxlis]

Cian attempts to call forth some sort of detached amusement, thinking of those bitterest of his thoughts to ground him—and yet what comes is the viscous mixture of admiration and jealousy both as he sees the tears slipping down freely down Lian’s softer skin. I should be crying, he thinks, and attempts to make it so. Nothing happens. Tries to lean into the pain that might come when Lian presses into his hands, thumb over the yellowed skin, but the bruise was already faded as if it had never been, as if Cian had never done anything to himself besides hold himself too still, and the others are too well hidden, where eyes couldn't reach. Cian can only watch, blank faced and lost, envy churning in his gut.

He goes easily despite how he had wished himself out of reach, sits properly next to Lian's side, his spine straight, half-ready to bolt. His hands are seized again, and despite himself, they twitch. Looks at the way Lian looks away, fixated on that easy sorrow yet again. Who is we? “I’ve not spoken to my father.” The truth of that hurt is easy to admit to Lian, and no one else. Not said anger and righteous fury, but the feeling of being an orphan in all but name. “He will not see me.” So who was we? And how long would this we last, before he leaves again? The thought is too much and his mouth twists, and he pulls away before he can think better of it, leaving Lian holding onto nothing. No, too odd. There is an awareness that he is not acting properly, so he attempts to imitate another’s easy poise, retreating elegantly into himself. “What could you do?” It misses by a mile, meant to be gentle and instead coming out half-mockery, petty and mean. He swallows, tries again. “This isn’t your problem.” He wrings his own hands together, now empty and colder for it. No, be nicer, so he will be happy. Cian smiles and it is twisted. “You do not need to trouble yourself. It—It might even be too dangerous if you do.” There, better when mixed with but a smidge of truth and a pretense at kindness. Lian need only take it, accept it and leave; leave far, far away where he is happiest, and Cian cannot see. It would be easier for them both. He pats Lian quickly, touching then pulling away. “It’s alright. You can cry all you need to.”

[decthless-a]

The sword. The sword? This is what he'd come for? To take away the last piece of him he had managed to keep from the wreckage? The Lord's eyes widen in surprise at such unfathomable cruelty, as if he'd been struck—the wound peeling open once more. "Cian—" but call as he might through the fog is ruptured slumber, he was a rabid dog gnashing its teeth, sinking into that darkness of his mind, incapable of listening—and he thinks perhaps his dreams were prophecies after all.

No, no, he could not have it back. He would not return it—what had been given he could not, would not take back. Foolish child—cruel child; he was greedy and monstrous, he would not return it, would not unlatch from it. He clutched tighter, until red ruvilets ran between the gaps of his fingers, holding onto his treasure with all the dormant fury of a sleeping dragon. "Ci-ngh—!" the bite makes him clutch tighter still—and then relax, just slightly, teeth still buried in the flesh of his hand. "Stop this—" he demanded, and brought the hand around his waist higher, holding him tighter when he asks to be let go, until it cupped whole of that stubborn, impenetrable head of his. "Will you stop this at once you insufferable, petulant—" struggling with the squirming, restless creature on top of him, the words are hissed through a clenched jaw, cutting and mean where his touch cannot bring itself to be. Dead on arrival. Dead his tongue as his tears begin to flow. "I will not." he denies him, the way he never has—never does, pulling him closer to anchor the whirlwind in his arms, smothering him in the confines of his chest, bringing his insolent, bloodied mouth to his throat to silence it—if it was so eager to bite, then he would offer softer parts. "I will not. I will never. Even if you beg and you cry and plead until your throat hurts—I will not." he cries, and cries—how could you do this to me? With fresh blood on his lips, and still he does not see the irony as it dribbles down his chin. "You impossible, spoiled creature… I offer all of myself to you, and you refuse me—you bite my hand when I reach for you—you stay when you beg you to follow—and still you come to take more like a thief in the night," he is a crying, pitiful, savage thing in his arms and he cannot bring himself to hate him, not even a little, not even at all. "Is there no end to your greed?" his voice is softer then, and he lets go off the sword with a sigh, not to part ways with it—he would not, he would not—but to bring it to his face, to wipe his tears with his thumb, leaving a streak of red against his pale skin, and the ache of where his teeth had been settles too comfortably to call it pain. "Stop…" the word had lost its bite, and grudgingly turned plea on his tongue as he feels the splinter of guilt in his heart sting. "Stop this, now—" he clenches his jaw, trying not to crumble. Where was his anger when he needed most? Where was his pride when he looked into his eyes? "Do you want me to hurt you? Is that what you want? ...why is it that you insist on hurting yourself like this?"

[prodigxlis]

It is the body that struggles now, as he shakes from the indignity. Curls around that which cuts him deep, around Sheng’s warmth, nose pressed against that soft throat and marking him with the trail of his bitter tears. Cian does not know how to let go, but knows how to be held even as he trembles and remains stiff, and that is enough—enough for the sword to slip away, so that he can hold back and grasp those damned dark silks, wishing to tear at them again and again so he can finally get to the tender flesh, wishing to burrow there. So he gets to keep, in the end, to the end. Life is full of so many injustices, large and small both, that Cian just bears.

Anger flares, deeper at the tenderness of it. How dare you, he thinks again. Showing that which he cannot have nor keep. And did he? Want to get hurt? Pressing on the blue-and-purple to feel something, goading different hands to feel the difference in the ache. Truth be told, he is sick of the pain—but oft it felt as if it was all he has ever been allowed to learn and keep. Pain and envy, a haunting and his own hunger both. He is only greedy the way someone starving could ever be. How dare you, he chokes on it. And as always resistance flares, makes him act before he can even dare to think.

Maybe this, too, would bruise—but it would bruise them both: his own lips press against Sheng’s in what can barely be called a kiss, more of a punch. Clumsy and furious and made wet with the blood and the tears. When Cian pulls away, he is already weeping again.

The guilt comes in ruthless waves. His own lips tender, where it might’ve cut as well; their lifeblood becoming one. His heart as if grasped in a merciless grip like a closed fist; and then a trembling, left in the wake of what he has done. No, no. Sorrow and fear drowns him both as he sits up on Sheng’s lap as much as he can, already attempting to rub away his own ruddy cheeks with the marred skin of his own wrists. “I’m sorry.” Tears almost blind him, and he hiccups. There is blood under the nails of his hands as they start tearing at the torn sheets, bringing any scraps he can to try and wipe the wound he has left with his teeth. Surely there would be something nearby they could use to clean it, surely. “You must truly hate me now—how could you not have left—” The words break, broken glass where they catch. “How could you not have left when this is how I am.”

“You can hurt me if that is what you want.” He sniffs, pathetic and unworthy as he truly is. “Do what you will—just forgive me, I’m so sorry, please forgive me…”

[moonvcils]

the moment they mentioned the white oak, understanding bloomed across his features as he gave a curt nod. how could he have forgotten about something so pivotal? because it had been a month past, and so much had happened in the meantime. "ah yes, the fire. how could i forget?" he murmured with an uncomfortable chuckle. "it was chaotic and frightening, to say the least. i am thankful we did not have more casualties." the thought of the oak once again had him wondering what would happening here in heliophra.

"i think my wedding was exciting when it was announced two months ago, but the staff have moved onto more interesting topics. ones that they can speculate on." he put a hand out to rest on her shoulder for a moment, the only bit of affection he could give in such a public space. "how thankful i am that you were simply gone, and not missing." how thankful he was to have answers, and to see them standing before him. whole and healthy. "currently trying to research if there is some way to change or enhance the bond between rider and dragon. a way to affect the natural scent of a rider, ensure their pheromones are as appealing and approachable as possible. my brother has been speculating new concepts that i am to help put into practice. so i have come here to find some new items we can use for such research." he held out the items in his hand for àsta to inspect if they chose to.

when they answered his question, with a lack of any real information, he could not help but ask, "is that all?" was there potentially a world where such grief over losing a sibling drove them into a deeper pit of despair, unconcerned with their own wellbeing? he tried to put on another smile, to accept the story he was given. "you left just to experience our lands? it sounds like a fantastic way to spend your time. next time you leave on such a journey i expect an invitation." however, would he go? now to be a husband, would such a journey be possible? he knew he could trust amarei to run vexmarsh in his absence, but feared she would not be happy with him leaving for an extended period of time just to travel drakathar on a whim. "the stress? your brother?" he questioned, hoping his voice did not sound too interested in what àsta knew of their brothers goals and intentions. "were you surprised to hear he submitted himself to be considered?"

[prodigxlis]

Is his discomfort another result of their pointless anxieties, or is it true and directed towards them? Ásta hurries to correct, hoping to appease even if they do not know which is which. “Yes, I’m thankful too.” The hand on their shoulder, the casual affection, brings a little happy movement, a small energetic sway that they cannot contain. “Of course! Where would I go missing to, anyways. I had a good set of maps, and many know the way to Draegor.” The meaning flies over their head like a rather spirited hawk, and then they are easily distracted by what he speaks of next. Ears perk as if hunting hound, eyes widening in curiosity and delight. They take the items, turn them in their hands. “That sounds incredible. I’m guessing that you hope to… maybe that one day, that might lure a dragon to choose a rider, as well?” A small pause, as they think of the implications of it. Would go breathless with the possibility were they to linger too much on it. “Your brother! How is Nerian doing? I’ve yet to see him. Has he shut himself in his rooms already? I know how he dislikes the crowd…” Ásta feels much the same, after all. It is not hard to miss the three of them away from it all. Ásta mirrors the smile, including the strain of it. Varyn had always been who they had told so much to, the one they could trust with their feelings and feel no shame—but such a thing was bound to end, one day. And such a thing had come with the engagement, even if he did not know it yet. They could only mourn such quietly, and fumble with everything else. “Yes, that was it!” They nod fervently, glad at the excuse Varyn provides. “We shall take Nerian as well! I’m sure he would enjoy it.” They try not to think of Amarei all by her lonesome in Vexmarsh, lest that dispels what is already a far-away, impossible dream.

Weariness comes to them, cloaks them even further. “Yes.” A deep sigh. “I suppose it is rather foolish to be surprised at all. Vaelor was always the type to take responsibility.” For his siblings, for his family, for his Hollow and now Nocturnia itself. His generosity knows no bounds, Ásta thinks grimly. Though if they thought further, they would be bound to weep. “Your future good-sister wishes for such as well, doesn’t she? Is… Is your promised troubled by such a thing? It all seems so dangerous and—” They blink at him. “You know, Varyn, I did… I did fear that you would aim for the crown, yourself. I’m glad that wasn’t the case, but—” Their brow furrows. “How come?”

[decthless-a]

"Sun-walker—" the man half growled, enduring the force of her heel like one too used to the poisiton. "—you kick like a man twice your size." What did she eat for breakfast, rocks and pebbles? It's a compliment if she wants it to be one—what, could she not spot the compliment through his disillusioned expression and disdainful words?

"Ha..." dry, humorless—because this had to be some sort of cosmic joke he wasn't in on. What are the odds a sun-walker would be roaming the halls just as he tried to spare himself the grief of enduring another day of this madness? And why is it nobody ever left him to die in peace? It was so clear to him he was never meant to survive that fire, never meant to walk this tale as long as he had. Eternity did not suit him. She, of all people, should know better than to spare a mindless beast that only knew how to bite the hand that fed it—why spare him?

He shouldn't have come, and most certainly shouldn't have stayed—he should have stayed put where he belonged instead of rushing here like a lovelorn fool only to be met with the ever present, grim reality, he was never meant to want things, or keep things. Nothing in this world was his to keep—least of all him. Now, alone with his own grief and an empty bed, he wanted to be here as much as they wanted them here.

He wipes the blood from his mouth with a callous expression, a sneer, goading, even crumbled on the floor. "As if I'd die deign myself to die anywhere near this awful place... there's so much pollen in the air you can barely breathe." His mean, ruby eyes looked at her, through her—everything about it reminds him of him—every bright flower he passed and could not name on the way here, every wild bird that flew by the open window, bright feathers and sweet songs; he wondered if they would endure the winter, or if they would be gone too when it arrived. Selfishly, he hopes they are. All the beauty and the colors and the songs, he wishes for none of it to outlast him. All of these beautiful things would be buried with the boy he were. He wanted the world to be as bleak and empty as he felt. There was nowhere he could look where he did not see him—everything in this place would take his mind right back to him; how they once promised to walk arm in arm, and have him explain these little things in excruciating detail, then clumsily apologize for doing so, as though he hadn't asked, as though his very existence was reason to be ashamed. How could he not know each sound his mouth made was precious?

What was it that he had said...? He would come home to him even if it were in ashes? How foolish he must be to believe such a thing when the boy couldn't even follow through a wide open door. Truly deluded, isn't he? Mad as a rabid dog, mad, as the sun-walker now says. Perhaps she was right—and he had made up all those terrors in his mind. They were all mad, savage creatures, there was nothing to salvage in them.

No, no, what of his brother? He was not mad, was not unkind... he was unhappy, but he had never been unkind. Would he be happier here, then? Perhaps there was one last thing to salvage, after all. Perhaps he could take him away from that awful place they called a home. He knew Lian did not share his affinity for Braxigar... would they let him stay here if he pleaded? He did not want him to be eaten by the shadows, fed to Braxigar, as all of them had been.

"Ngh--!" another kick pulls him from his thoughts; the Nuwa winces but makes no attempt to fight back, instinctively curling into himself—strangely, it was the best he felt since. He laughed dryly as his head hit the ground with a thud, the dark spill of his hair like an abyss opened wide, ready to swallow anyone on sight, sprawled underneath the pale weight of his skull. "Fenglian," he seems to recognize, at last, squinting to peer at her, crowned in sunlight, sanctified, with eyes of molten gold and a hair dark as his own. "...you're not as pleasant as they say, you know?"

[prodigxlis]

Oh? The compliment—for that is how she shamelessly sees it—is pleasing to her ears. “Why, thank you.” She treads on the tails of his robes, uncaring of the dirt she tracks on him. “Yet flattery will not get you from under my wrath. I repeat, what did you think you were doing, fool? Have the whispers in your mind addled you? Maybe my next kick should be to your head.” And yet, the fervency and anger to her voice is already running out, sharpness dulling. The fright and fury having passed, she felt her energy already draining away, only for it to come back with another offense. Awful? How dare he! “The life in the air must be noxious for you, deadlanders.” She hisses less like a cat and more like a snake, accompanied by her own venom. “Rare as it is for your lungs to get even a handful of its beauty. You are welcome to turn tail and run back home to your salted earth. I do not know what it is you expect from here, either way… It is not as if they will choose you.” Her eyes roll, but stop suddenly as she sees how disheartened it makes him; somehow, she had not yet learned that her words were more than mere wind. “Hey, hold on.” Awkwardness makes itself known in her face, discomfort, at the grief on his. “Ugh, do not do that.” Ruoxi is growing quite tired of seeing such hurt in others; she finds it irritating, as well as unable to allow them to go on unaddressed.

“It is not as if the borders have closed for you lot. Strengthen yourselves if you still yet wish to smell the blooms. Wasting time wallowing for no reason, instead of struggling where you can…” Her voice peters out, her own mind almost grasping at some painful wisdom, but she fights against it herself with all her might. She kicks him again, this time less a goad and more a prompt, painless and half-hearted. Steps back after, leaving only the gashes bruises and traces of her heels on his clothes. “Stand up.” She says. “I refuse to kick a man when he is down, when such a thing no longer amuses me. But if you go near the sun again, I shall push you down again as well, until you know to stay away from that which burns. They teach that to children everywhere, and only an idiot would’ve refused to learn.” There is a danger to that fire that others, who cannot bear the kiss of its flames, will never know. A loneliness that eclipses—for what else can be there, with its unrelenting force? Whatever the sun touches for too long it scorches and taints, and even that soft and kind, like the petals of colorful and fragile blooms, wilts and withers under its merciless fire. And still, so many desired it, wished for such power in their skin, and in their grasp. Ignored the succor of the moon, and the colder, peaceful nights. Perhaps it is that Ruoxi has never known anything else, and that is the reason why she has never understood such pointless ambitions. Maybe it is for the best she never will. “Hmph.” She raises her chin, though does not attempt to hide her own widening smile. “You’ve heard of me?” Her eyes crinkle. “Even in those wretched lands they talk of me? What do they speak of, hm? My gallantry, my beauty, or the strength of my mace?” Or is it how bloodthirsty she could be, how vicious? “Ah, I know. My humility.”

[indu1ge]

𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖊.  the  corridor  just  outside  of  the  solkarith  quarters,  flouting  all  standards  of  propriety. 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖔𝖓.  @prodigxlis's  fenglian  ruoxi,  razor's  dance  &  razor's  grip.

the  original  intention,  not  that  it  matters  much  now,  had  been  to  flag  the  first  passer-by.  statistically  speaking,  that  ought  to  have  been  a  servant  of  some  sort.  an  individual  predisposed  to  discretion  and  silence  ⸻  whether  an  attendant  selected  from  his  own  household,  or  one  of  altinsoy  employ.  in  turn,  ran  possessed  a  list  of  people  he  had  not  wanted  to  glimpse  him  in  this  very  moment.  his  parents  and  their  heir  sat  toward  the  top,  knowing  they  would  (  with  certainty  )  chastise  him  for  being  so  stupid.  fenglian  ruoxi  had  occupied  some  spot  in  the  middle  ranks,  only  now  he  had  forgotten  why,  because  he  upon  the  sight  of  her,  he  now  had  the  odd  impulse  to  sneer  at  her.  look  at  the  mess  that's  been  made  of  me.  this  could  have  been  yours.  if  only  she  hadn't  spurned  that  long-promised  spar,  she  might've  been  privy  to  this  sight  sooner.  but  she  had,  and  he  was  furious  with  her  for  it,  and  that  anger  in  some  part  manifested  in  the  wildness  that  had  brought  him  to  injury.

such  carelessness  was  beneath  him,  he  had  arrogantly  thought.  ran  had  not  trained  with  a  flail  in  some  time,  but  only  a  fool  ⸻  so  he  had  believed  ⸻  would  catch  himself  across  the  back  while  seeking  to  hit  a  personal  record  for  distance.  and  only  a  greater  one  would  find  that  he  actually  quite  liked  the  sting.  he  hadn't  done  more  to  himself  than  the  first  strike,  of  course.  but  he  had  stood  there  like  an  idiot,  prodding  at  the  wound,  then  shuffling  the  dirt  around  its  evidence,  and  then  proceeded  to  sweat  into  it  as  he  continued  with  his  training.  so  now  he  had  to  make  sure  it  wouldn't  get  infected.

because  that  would  be  the  most  embarrassing  part  of  this  whole  affair,  and  not  that  he  was  struggling  to  reach  it  with  the  jar  of  ointment  he'd  pilfered  from  his  mother's  belongings.

“  you.  help.  ”  his  request  for  aid  is  bleated  with  all  the  brusqueness  he  would  afford  anyone  else.  why  should  it  not  be  ?  it  is  not  as  though  she  deserves  any  better;  it  is  not  as  though  this  isn't  ran  at  his  very  best.  lest  the  woman  fail  to  comprehend  the  situation  at  hand,  ran  lifts  the  porcelain  pot,  then  raises  the  two  fingers  covered  in  its  glistening  white  cream  and  pantomimes  reaching  over  his  shoulder.

“  preferably  inside,  ”  he  adds  as  an  afterthought,  “  unless  you'd  rather  do  it  out  here  in  the  open  hallway.  it'll  only  take  a  moment.  ”  what  might  the  other  solkariths  think  of  him  then  ?  at  least,  ran  muses,  it  would  take  their  minds  off  of  the  need  to  verbally  lash  him  for  his  foolishness.  yet  for  all  the  amusement  the  vision  stirs  in  him,  he  spins  on  his  heel  without  waiting  for  a  response,  exposing  the  single  angry  red  trail  scored  across  his  trapezius  like  a  comet,  and  delves  further  into  his  chambers.

[prodigxlis]

Somewhere within the old lessons on history and faith, the same ones that Ruoxi had ceased to pay full attention to sometime after she learnt to write and read enough to be allowed to run back to her training dummies of straw and her wooden swords, they had been taught of that which had become forgotten and could thus only be speculation: the origin of them, and of how that around them came to be. One such was a Maker of untold power, that had handcrafted the universe in the way someone waves a basket of flax, the way someone molds clay into shape. If such a being was real, then they truly must be cackling now—for it feels as if Ruoxi’s life has become a cosmic joke. And for once, she did not feel inclined to laugh. Why had she come here? It was not so little ago a beauty of another type of sharpness had called her dull, and now she is not inclined to disagree. At the very least, she seemed to continuously be quite foolish. The halls of Elaris Keep are nothing like Braxigar, despite how they had made sure to make themselves as accomodating as they could be for those coming from those lands. And so, there is nothing here that she would gleam, from that faraway place called Lumien Keep. And still she had come, thinking too much and nothing at all. As it always was: avoiding the lure with all her might until she couldn’t bear it, and until she turned around and swallowed it in one bite. His appearance strikes her and makes her stand still, looking uncharacteristically caught. Caught in him, in the color of those damned eyes that seemed to be unlike those other ones she had found within these sun-kissed gardens (those torn in fury of some cub, the despair written in the depths of another fool’s). And yet it is one, in particular, the line that cuts his lip, that makes her the most befuddled. “What happened to your face?” When he says ‘you’ she points at herself, as if questioning if it is really her who he speaks to. At the jar of salve and his shirtless-ness and the ‘do it outside’, her eyes flicker to his pants, not really in arousal but rather confusion, until the true meaning catches up to her. She wouldn’t have turned tail and ran again, but had that not happened, she most likely would’ve spat some words then absconded nonetheless. Now, she finds herself trailing after like some sort of stupid dog, and her brow twitches. Still, she sniffs around, now allowed into the chambers themselves. Decorations she had never seen, eyes tracing everything. Did he bring anything of what I gave to him? The better question is why she was here at all. Was this meant to be another humiliation? Despite her own moping—she could admit this just this now and would not later on—pride flares, as only herself can flick mud at herself. She tsks, raises her chin. “You found not worthy hand to wound you, so you would wound yourself?” Her worry has always been shown in irritation, in soft hands but harsh words. She snatches the pot out of his hands, smells it, raising a brow at its dim stench. “And here I thought that it was only me who was worthless of a sparring partner. Or have you found you and I to once again be one of the same?” She awaits no true answer as she keeps looking around. “Are you going to lay down, or would you prefer to be standing? I have no kind healer’s touch—I will be rough on you. You might wish to bite a pillow, my lord.”