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

[vainglcriousx]

Curiosity paints his features, lines drawn in confusion over his brow. It is not normal he is unrecognized by others. Often the Heir of Elarion is the one who cannot place a name or a face. But the other velkynar seems to be unaware of him. He was struck between enjoying being an unknown versus frustration at not being instantly recognized. His vanity could barely survive such a thing, but any offense is instantly replaced when they react to the lute within his hands. His reputation as a songbird was more known within his Hollow, or to the few that had spent an inordinate amount of time in Moira. Then the more rare travelers who spent a lot of time in Morkhul’s inns, where he was often singing to an enraptured crowd, if not playing cards or excessively drinking. It appeared they had not crossed paths in that capacity, and their instant fascination with his lute caused a wide grin to spread over his features.

“ Ah, well… I suppose it is not entirely common, ” Evandris conceded with a shrug, slipping the strap from his shoulder. He held the instrument forward, holding by the neck while his other hand supported the bowl. He held it delicately, with a tenderness that showed its importance. It had been a gift from his mother, commissioned from a great craftsman in Morkhul for when he turned twelve. “ Most have bowls made of spruce such as this, and necks of poplar. The fingerboard is rosewood. That is where the similarities in construction with most other lutes found in Morkhul ends. The mother of pearl inlay on the fingerboard is unique to my lute, as is the intricate pattern of the rosette, ” he motioned to the features as he spoke. A mother of pearl inlay set into the rosewood that looked almost like crawling ivy working its way up the dark surface of the neck’s fingerboard, and then the intricate detailed pattern carved into the face of the big round body of the lute from which the sound echoed. It looked like an ornate window peering into the body of the instrument, a pattern of cuts that left swirls of wood, almost like the outline of a stain glass window. Upon closer inspection, the pattern looked like a blooming daffodil within the window. “ Six courses, eleven strings, and my family’s crest is here on the pegbox, ” Evandris showed off the crest of the House of Elarion carved into the wood at the head of the instrument briefly before offering it for them to hold. “ Only if I may see yours, ” he said, his smile lopsided. He had not played a lyre before — the instruments he played were other stringed ones which resembled the lute closely, and the pan flute he’d picked up fairly recently.

[prodigxlis]

They trace the intricacies with their eyes, mapping them as a traveler would; following the tale of this lute’s journey as told from his tongue and spoken by the smooth timber of his voice. Rosewood and mother of pearl, rosette and daffodil. Rarely did anything bloom in Drakathar—winter roses that withered quickly, and oft all that was left in the gale’s wake was the wind-buffeted trees with their branches bared. Now, there was lushness not just around them, but carved into the instrument, furthered by its song.

It cannot be helped. As if spelled, they play the chords even while the lute is still in his hands, a single progression drawn by their fingertip as to sweeten the air. “It’s beautiful.” Then, their eyes fall upon the family crest, and their face decides to color itself in several different shades of white and red.

“You can do whatever you like!” Shit. Peer, indeed, more than, truth be told! “I only mean to—” They extend their lyre but almost drop it as they rush, with a twitch to their brow and eyes almost closing at their own fumbling display. “Mine is simply a humble tool. I have a couple more, one back home I found in my travels made of wild cherry that is carved with the very same that gave the wood its name—that one is my second favorite—but this one, ah—ehm.” Ásta flusters at the way their own mouth runs, but continues nonetheless. “This one is the oldest of the three. Blackthorn wood, carved by our own weapon-master's hand after I gifted him his favorite song. The figure is that of a long dragon-snake—here, you can see its head.”

The scales remain despite the time they had weathered, but the wood of the creature’s head is smooth, as if someone had rubbed their thumb against it often, be it to pet the wood-dragon or for luck. “I’ve had it since I was a fourteen.” They pause. “The one before it broke alongside my knee. That was a long time ago.”

They do not step back, but remain still, awkwardly holding the lyre to his inspection—for however long he desires. But hopefully not too long, or their arms would cramp. “I did not mean to speak for so long, Lord Elarion.” Ásta’s cheeks have remained vaguely flushed ever since the recognition struck them like a stick does the drum. “I had heard of you—Though I did not know you played nor composed! I just—I usually tend to keep to myself, in the few parties where all the Hollows join. I had yet to learn your face.” It would’ve been a difficult one to forget.

“I—I couldn't." They refuse his offer, even though their eyes betray the greed that calls for them to accept; avert their gaze, lest they be further swayed by that gilded temptress. “I'd be too scared to drop it. But! You can hold my lyre, if you wish to. Even play it—I know how to play the lute! So I imagine you know how. Unless that is too much to assume then—I can teach you?”

[insatiabilitics]

.✦ ݁˖ ⸻ Graveholt was a castle bolstered by chilling silence, a eulogy for all things forgotten, a grave for what she could not let go. Each place traveled to was filled with more boisterous life and revelry, with music which flowed effortless. This was the first in which Efigenia paused; the music was not discordant, it was pleasant, spoke to something rare within her, but she noted the lack of harmony such tune had with Heliophra. A place lacquered in gold and drenched in false light, it was no wonder Amarei's ideals for what their former glory pertained to stretched towards this place.

" Have you forgotten everyone in your respite ? " She delighted in a familiar face, especially one who had drifted away towards the sands of time grasping for hopes of oblivion. Efigenia smiled, an expression which would make most uneasy from her, eyeing Ásta as though they were the mealworm caught in her well-fashioned web. " For one who had skittered around my home , colluding with my family , I would hope to be greeted in a friendly regard , " she dangled such fraught truths like a lifeline; to either be ignited or ignored, but either response would be ammunition that she would delight in.

" Have you come to bear witness to who will win in this horrid game ? " She could offer no condolences for the words would feel crude and meaningless, gauche in the place of what music they had played moments prior.

[prodigxlis]

The recently restrung chord snaps with a dissonant noise; pity the sheep whose gut had been wasted in it, though it is Ásta who feels at the mercy of the butcher’s block now. Oh no. “Lady. Velwyrn.” Their onyx eyes are wide. Ásta lowers the remnants of their lyre, hides it behind themselves. “Wuh—no!” Their face finally breaks from the surprise, though it remains rather stiff. “How could I have forgotten you! My lady.” They bow, one hand behind them still, and straighten quickly, as if they cannot bear her being out of their sight for too long. “What? I do not know of what you speak.” And that is all they would say of the matter, thank you very much! “I rushed all the way back from the fringes of Drakathar, and barely had time to unpack my bag before suddenly we were rushing to arrive here in time. So much hustle and bustle, actually, ha—were it not for the servants, I probably would’ve forgotten by smallclothes in my closet back at Draegor. What a relief it wasn't so!” Ha. Ha.

Ásta blinks, and finally then does their face reflect how wary they feel. “It’s… Some would say it is… Simply the way it should be.” Their bare fingers clench and unclench, unsure of what to do with them when there is nothing for them to pluck at. “Nocturnia has been too long without a crownwearer. If it is a horrid game then… It is one that has been played several times, and a song that none have forgotten.” They pause, haunted by that truth. “But… If it’s so horrid in your eyes, then why play, my lady? Does—Does your sister not worry at you stepping forward for such a thing?”

[talesinrequiem]

where. heliophra gardens who. open [ 1/?] when. the forgotton world

the loss of lady garramoth had been jarring. it was true that death would find all velkynar but there was something in it to denma. something like a pattern dancing across her mind. first the chosen, her own little brother. then the fire. only to be followed by the lady. none of them sat right with her but all she could do pose was questions. hold suspicions. only solace was within her power of providing; in knowing their bodies were taken care of and their souls were finally free of the coil they were living in.

she had not expected a summoning to heliophra so quickly, her mind intrigued simply by the timing and that she was summoned as well. denma’s family was no longer in the running of the chosen. she would never have put her own name in for such a thing. her duties lay beyond a kingdom. beyond a council.

still, she came. even with graveyard dirt on her feet, she stood among a garden. gently viewing plants, she had not seen them in some months. deft fingers carefully tracing lines of petals, her eyes looked over the area with fondness. a soft sigh leaving her at the feeling of a presence nearby.

denma only looked to them with the slight turning of her face, “i hope the night greets you well,” a bare smile tugging the corner of her lips. “i am not certain i shall make good company for your time, but i shall endeavor to do so if that is what you need of me..."

[prodigxlis]

“It greets me as well as it can.” In front of her, Cian feels petulant child, like the troubled youth he pretends not to be. “If anything, I hope you will accept mine.”

Let me be your hands, he had said. But hands need be dextrous and steady, to wield the needle to thread or the knife to cut. Hands cannot by themselves grieve, let alone tremble and flinch. The sorrow threatened to drown him no matter the strength he used to swim to the shore. She was gone. And were it not for the way Denma's wisdom had bound him to his own sanity by a hair-thin thread, Cian is sure that he would've soon followed.

He walks to her side with his head bent. Lady Fukuyama carries with her a temple wherever she walks, it seems, and already Cian feels himself steadier under her shelter. If only he did not need to burden her with his need for further guidance still. “I’ve—” He stops. He has grown too used to the way he weaves lies into his words that now his voice cracks as it snaps back into a truer shape. “You once told me... Told me of how you kept them, even when it seemed there was nothing left to keep.” He swallows. Cian's eyes are wet, and his mouth trembles. Cannot help but wrap an arm around himself, a pale imitation what he desperately needs. “I cannot have lost all of her. Please, help me.”

[prophcsy]

Beric had not intended to interrupt. the sound had reached him long before the musician came into view, carried through the garden on the warm night air. it was enough to alter his path, if only slightly. enough to draw him toward it rather than away. for a few moments he remained where he was, half concealed by moonlit branches and stone, listening. then came the rustle. his own fault, perhaps. the melody stopped. beric's gaze lifted toward the figure seated amongst the gardens, recognition settling not from familiarity, but from name and reputation. one noble house knew another, even if introductions had never been properly exchanged. slowly, he stepped forward into clearer view. “my apologies,” he said evenly, his voice carrying easily through the quiet left behind by the interrupted song. “i wasn't aware i was close enough to ruin the performance.” a faint glance drifted toward the lyre before returning again and the corner of his mouth moved faintly, something not quite a smile. “and before you ask, no, i wasn't lurking.” a brief pause. “intentionally, at least.”

[prodigxlis]

Onyx meets deep blue. Ásta knew of this man. Had lingered by the walk-ways that opened to the courtyard to catch a glimpse of him; had worried and hoped at the arrival of his carriage. They had never before exchanged a single word. “You—” They take a step back, straighten their back. “I didn’t ask—I mean! I did not mean that the way that it sounded,” Wings above! “I would never suspect—I would never even fathom the thought of you stalking me, lord Verathorm. That would be quite ridiculous, there wouldn’t be much to be caught.” The laugh that follows is half-forced, half-begging for him to allow it, if just to deliver them from the misery of such embarrassment. “And you did not ruin it, just… One cannot be too careful nowadays, can they?” They mutter, already wrought with grief, both past and borrowed.

They deliver him a small curtsy, and a smaller-even-if-bit-stiff smile. “Do you—Uh. Do you wish to keep listening to my performance? I can play a much lighter song. You must be wishing for some relaxation! Because of the... Because of the circumstances, I imagine…”

[decthless]

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

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

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

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

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

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

@aenaos

[aenaos]

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

Then came the sound of a door.

Then the boy returned, if only momentarily.

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

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

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

Death, maiden, lamb.

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

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

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

@prodigxlis

[prodigxlis]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@decthless

[celcstine]

the  sound  of  a  lyre  is  heard  in  one  of  the  many  oasis  gardens  of  the  elaris  keep  .  citrine  hue's  find  themselves  eager  to  find  it's  creator  and  with  gentle  and  easy  steps  ,  the  thanachalerm  daughter  carries  herself  to  the  oasis  .  it's  astonishing  how  the  heliophrians  are  able  to  live  in  the  desert  ,  yet  build  their  homes  in  places  where  greenery  has  found  sanctuary  .  perhaps  the  place  is  created  or  maybe  it  was  here  before  the  keep  ?  the  secrets  of  old  lay  burried  deep  within  their  world  and  perhaps  they  will  never  come  to  light  .  silken  clothing  sway  in  the  wind  as  she  approaches  and  when  she  finds  the  creator  of  the  beautiful  sounds  ,  her  shoulders  sinks  back  into  comfort  .  she  did  not  know  when  asta  had  returned  from  their  travels  ,  all  she  knew  was  that  they  were  upon  draegor  when  she  and  vaelor  returned  from  vallarion  .  "  it's  me  ,  asta  .  "  careful  words  ,  whispered  to  let  the  music  still  sway  her  ,  like  a  serpent  wanting  to  move  to  it's  tune  .  "  i  can  leave  if  you'd  like  ,  i  just  really  wanted  to  know  who  made  such  beautiful  tunes  at  such  difficult  times  .  "

[prodigxlis]

Her appearance greets them unaware. Amazement comes to their features, from seeing her face as it peeks through the greenery, as if another flower blooming through the leaves. It is no wonder they sing songs of her, no wonder they speak of her even in distant inns—and no wonder that when the engagement was announced, that many mourned and celebrated both. As if higher being, now bound to earth. “Chantara,” They breathe, as if spelled. Then, a moment later, they move back not in fright but out of respect and to give her further space, still struck slightly dumb. “No, no—Pschow, you know you do not have to leave.” They attempt to school their expression into something inviting, but most likely miss by a mile. “We are to be family, so—Come, here.” They step back again, almost tripping for it, and gesture to the empty seat. “Sit, sit. I’ll play you a song to lift… to lift your spirits.” It is now, that they realize what she had said. “…Is everything alright? Has... Has something come to pass?”

[prodigxlis]

closed starter for seren tenelith — @moonvcils a secluded sky-garden, within elaris keep

The letter is delivered by no page and left on her nightstand with nary a family crest. I still hope that we can find the answers together is written in black inks, somehow already on the cusp of starting to fade. Scribbled alongside it is a skillful drawing of a stout woman heaving a jug that pours, and a time. There is a fountain that boasts the same figure in one of the many sky-gardens of Elaris Keep; if she is not clever enough to find him, then that would be it. And yet, Cian believes in her wisdom, even if from the memory of those nights over a month ago.

Cian stands amongst the lushness and the blooms, looking at the lifeless statue. Walks closer, to the edge of where the water flows, where the stream murmurs as if a babbling brook. Her carved face looks at the pool itself in what seems to be mischief, as if mocking the countless coins littered and drowned and left at the bottom of its marble, even as they glint from the moonlight streaming through the walls of crystal glass.

When Seren arrives, Cian turns. Greets her approach with a nod and a gentle smile—but Cian is clad in mourning blacks, and so it does not touch the corner of his eyes. “Lady Tenelith.” He extends a pale hand. “It is more than good luck that we've met again. Come, let us speak further. I've a wish to know of what you’ve learnt as of late, and I rather hope that you will find me worthy enough to grant it.”

[rotfire]

Clean  air  won’t  make  your  voice  braver.  Still,  he  lets  his  thoughts  stay  close  to  his  heart  as  he  stands  there,  large  and  imposing,  all  stoical  and  phlegmatic.  Dry,  cutting  eyes  find  the  shade  of  concern  of  his  sibling’s.  This  time,  he  does  not  let  himself  relent  to  a  softer  gaze  as  he  clenches  his  jaw,  only  followed  by  a  sigh,  loud  and  clear.  " Nerves.  Dust.  Whatever  else  you  intend  to  blame  next?  Me? "  Ivar?  Our  parents?  The  cold  of  Drakathar  that  pilfered  the  warmth  from  one’s  limbs?  He  holds  her  expression  of  disbelief,  no  retreat  into  any  softness  that  would  undo  the  shape  of  what  he  has  long  since  become.

His  rebuttal  does  not  end,  and  he  feels  the  jarring  phantom  ache  of  his  own  words.  " If  you  have  complaints  about  the  quality  of  the  air,  Ástra,    do  address  them  to  our  dearest  maid.  I’m  certain  she’ll  be  more  than  devastated  to  learn  her  stewardship  of  the  dust  has  failed  your  sensible  lungs. "  For  must  I be  burdened  by  your  airway  too?  He  can  tell  by  now,  as  the  maid  fluttered  in  the  room,  that  they  held  their  breath  as  they  perked  their  ears,  their  apron  around  their  middle  slightly  askew, only  adding  to  his  ire.  Still,  he  does  not  raise  his  tongue  towards  them,  but  instead,  tears  his  eyes  away  fully  to  catch  the  glimpse  of  his  sibling.  " Otherwise,  I  suggest  you  endure  it. "  His  brows  furrow  as  they  grip  the  charcoal,  his  scowl  only  deepening  as  a  streak  of  ash  paints  their  skin.

Only  blood  could  scrape  off  the  hardened  shell  of  a  man.  " If  I  meant  to  torment  you,  you  would  not  be  left  wondering  what  it  is  that  I  think.  You  will  hear  it  plainly  when  I  choose  to  speak  it. "  Yet,  Vaelor  knew  that  he  must.  That  he  must  sound  out  the  syllables  of  his  reasoning  to  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  That  he  must  forge  each  word  into  an  iron  shield  so  they  could  not  find  any  breaches  to  prick  at his  own  armor.  He  will  find  a  way  to  word  it.  For  Ástra.  For  they  were  blood  and  soil,  carved  from  the  same  womb  and  stone.  Vaelor  holds  their  gaze;  no  plead,  no  softness just yet.  " So  please  cease  to  ask  me  in  a  manner  that  makes  me  suffer  for  hearing  it. "  This  time,  Vaelor  finally  moves  closer,  and  his  hands  itch  to  reach  out  over  the  wooden  chair.  To  touch  the  salt  and  mountain  dust  on  their  skin.  To  feel  the  warmth  that  was  spread  by  the  pump  of  their  blood.  So  he  speaks  again,  softer,  his  siege  laid  down.  " I  have  to  do  this,  Ástra.  I  know  you’re  frightened.  But  fear  cannot  change  what  must  be  done. " He’ll  tell  them.  For they must stay this time. With him.

[prodigxlis]

Their lips close, mouth shutting with a sound clic. Immediately, they shrink. Was this not what they feared? What they had told themselves they would not allow again? Already a buzzing fly, a wretched burden. “No, never…” They answer as a mumble, gaze lowering to the floor as their back straightens under the reproach that is surely on his voice, as they evade what must be disappointment in that pale stern gaze. Again, it cannot happen again. Their hand leaves the chair to fold over the other, leaving ash on the wood; holding onto the cold charcoal. “No, it is—it is alright.” They fidget. “The windows are as clear as crystal, and quite pretty.” It is a peace offering that achieves little.

Tears start to drip down when the sword of Vaelor’s words falls, right over what feels like Ásta’s fragile neck. They try not to shake, silent sobbing rather than a widow’s wail. No, no. It cannot happen again. Ivar had been so alive so little before it had happened, just as Vaelor feels now—his eyes had been so bright, his hands so steady. I have to do this. He said. I will win. “How could you—” They hiccup. “How could you do this…” It escapes rather than it is meant to be said—as if indignant of a great wrong made against them, as if unable to fathom it. “What for—Vaelor,” They rub at their face with the cloth of their arm, try to still the river of tears with just their bare hands, but even in this they fail, once again and over again they fail. “What for?!” They cry, voice still attempting to be low, to keep the composure he had called for. “It cannot be worth it.”

[decthless]

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

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

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

[prodigxlis]

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

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

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

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

[rotfire]

He  tunes  out  of  their  flutter  of  musings.  Ásta’s  voice  nervously  breaking  like  thin  ice  as  they  speak,  shaping  him  into  a  man  of  constraint.  His  arms  are  crossed  over  each  other,  eyes  staring  at  the  ashen  steel  plate  next  to  the  firewood.  For  a  brief  moment,  as  Ásta  continues  their  distressed  chatter,  he  wonders  why  a  hollow  this  warm  would  have  a  littering  of  previous  remnants  of  ash.  Vaelor  opens  his  mouth,  eyes  searching  for  the  maid,  to  speak  an  order  to  clean  the  hearth,  but  his  words  derail  as  his  patience  thins,  and  instead  he  speaks  more  cutting.   " You’re  a  bard     yet  you  speak  like  you’ve  forgotten  the  point  of  your  song. "   The  maid  is  long  forgotten  now,  yet  he  can  see  from  his  peripherals  the  slight  hitch  in  the  maid’s  spine  before  they  rush  back  to  work.  Vaelor  bites  his  tongue  then,  wishing  he  did  it  sooner.  Still,  the  lingering  regret  softens  his  eyes,  and  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  entered  their  quarters,  salt  eyes  look  upon  their  blood.  " What  I  mean  to  say  is  to  be  careful  with  the  friends  you  make,  Ásta.  These  aren’t  the  travellers  and  commoners  you  come  across  on  the  mountains. "  He  tries  to  put  as  much  love  in  his  words  as  he  could.  Yet,  he  is  stoicism  made  flesh.

His  arms  are  still  crossed.  " Tell  you  what  it  means? "  How  did  they  not  know  yet?  " If  I  do,  you  won’t  unhear  it. "  This  time,  as  his  feet  take  him  closer  to  where  they’re  standing,  long  arms  come  to  fall  by  his  side.  He  shall  be  careful  with  them.  Lest  they  take  flight  to  the  mountains.  Fled  from  him,  like  a  ghost,  like  the  only  thing  they  left  was  cold  air.  " So  decide  first  if  your  heart  is able to  bear  it. "

[prodigxlis]

“Why, well of course I have!” Their fingers itch for their lyre, but already they had left it at their room on the other side of their quarters. “How am I to sing with all these—these nerves and, this room is a little dusty, isn’t it?” They squint at the hearth and bend to pick up a stray oddly-shaped soot-ridden rock, and then Ásta shoots a worrying look at the small sound of dismay let out by a maid just a few feet away. Someone goes to fetch a wet handkerchief.

It is not usual that Ásta graces Vaelor with an expression of sheer disbelief, but what is common is the worried look that follows; common enough that it is never suspect, that it never means anything besides what is expected of them. Too late, brother.

Again in too-short-a-time, Ásta looks at Vaelor aghast. Then, they start. “And what do you mean by that?!” The last word drags on a whine, bordering on a desperate sob, and Ásta starts pacing immediately, bringing a hand to their forehead out of the stress. Quickly, a streak of ash forms on their skin painted by their blackened fingertips, one they do not address as their other hand worries at the charcoal they had just picked up. “I do not want to know, but if I do not know, I shall be suffering all the while from what I do not know but you know and refuse to let me know without asking me if I should even know!”

They stop, clutch onto the back of a wooden chair, take a deep breath. “Tell me. Or better yet, change what I think you’ve made up your mind for, so that when you tell me, the truth will mean something else. You are torturing me, Vaelor. Please. Just say it is not.”

[prodigxlis]

closed starter for lorencio almara — @wcnderingsovls at an open plaza in heliophra, within the maze of its markets

He has never seen this much richness, nor this much waste. Cian is walking as his eyes peruse each stall and find them all wanting. Estrella’s cage had become too small for her liking, and while Cian would delight in seeing her fluttering and free, he fears her being caught too much to allow it. So he looks for a larger cell, for jeweled chains, for little golden hanging seats and dangling toys that she could peck at. Maybe she would rage less, if she knew of how the lushness of life hid many dangers. Heliophra was sure to have many birds of prey.

The market opens to a plaza, and within, furs and silk-threaded cushion-seats have been placed alongside low carved tables. Tall fire-torches stand, their flames dancing in the dark. Food wafts its delicious aroma, and drinks flow like water—many walk to-and-fro, servants and peddlers alike. His legs are sore, the unhealing one more so, but all places are taken by strangers of all sorts and sides. It is as he seeks for a free spot that his eyes catch on that of another. Sharp and bright; unflinching and bold. it is reason enough for Cian to approach, with sure steps, even if slowed. “Milord.” A light bow. “I’ve found myself weary after losing myself to the beauty of this land’s wares. May you allow me to share your table, so that I might find rest?”

[vainglcriousx]

setting: the marketplace, just beyond elaris keep featuring: leyla altinsoy & open

It was not uncommon to see the marketplace so full of faces. It had always been bustling, with vendors lining the streets selling wares and trinkets unique to their hollow and sometimes from far beyond. Beneath colorful banners and pennants which flickered as an evening breeze rolled through, the market square was far more congested as new faces now flooded the area beside the usuals, and Heliophra answered in kind. Every tavern door was wide open, the smells of hearty meals drawing travel weary patrons to their dining halls. Inns boasted being at near capacity, other establishments moved their finest wares to be visible at windows or on stalls right outside their stoop. The marketplace had come alive with the momentous occasion that they had been given the honor to host.

But Leyla Altinsoy was not among the throng flocking to the marketplace. Walking swiftly up an uneven path sloping behind the buildings that lined the bustling avenue, she had taken to the laneways which ran parallel to the market instead. These paths were empty, less traversed alleys which still lead through the busier parts of town. They were perfect alternatives to getting around for those that knew how to navigate the labyrinthine side streets, and she was one such Heliophrian on a particular mission of sorts. In the midst of all that was happening she had commissioned new jewels, the artisan all too eager to design a set that was to be adorned on the youngest Altinsoy. She could have sent anyone to fetch them, but Leyla liked to see to such things personally. She wanted them to see her gratitude within a radiant smile that always took to her features when claiming a new piece. It suited her image at court, that of a beautiful girl who was more occupied with such simple things than the intricacies of politics. Let her elders play their games; Leyla would instead shine in ballrooms and grand halls, forever that little pretty thing to admire.

Such a task should have been fairly simple, but the large crowds made it impossible to navigate the marketplace quickly. So she took to the alternative routes, going against the protestations of her lady’s maid in the process. Esma was to go pick up her new gloves at the haberdashery while Leyla pressed onwards to the jewelers. Splitting up meant getting through their respective tasks quicker, after all. And besides — this particular path lead straight to the back door of a bakery Leyla had frequented since she was a child, taking her allowance to waste on simit and poğaça. Why not take the opportunity to find her way to their back door and indulge while she was at it? It was this thought that added a certain pep to her step as she traversed the path. But coming to a sharp turn, she was startled when she almost walked head first into two tall hooded figures loitering at the back door of a tavern. Their breaths held the reek of ale as they laughed at the near collision, a voice echoing through the alley when one spoke up. “ Well, well, what have we here? Not the typical alley cat we would expect to find. Where are you off too? Perhaps we can escort you? ”

Her nose wrinkled, Leyla lifting her chin haughtily in defiance even though they towered well above her. She reached for a dagger she luckily had thought to conceal within her cape but as she began to contemplate unsheathing it for her own protection, Leyla’s amber eyes caught another face coming down the laneway opposite them, and felt relief swell within at the familiar visage. “ Oh — there you are! ” she cried out, side stepping the two and rushing up the incline towards the velkynar approaching. She ignored the confusion on their face, flashing a look that said ‘do not ask questions’ before smiling and continuing, “ When you said we would meet up in an unorthodox place, this was hardly what I had imagined. Shall we go, then? ” She lowered her voice, barely nodding her head back as she added, “ Just play along until we are rid of them, hm? ”

[prodigxlis]

Cian blinks, startled into marble-like stillness, before life comes to him again. His words carry, soft yet loud enough still to be heard. “Forgive me—But you know that I am yet a fool, when it comes to finding my way. That said, I will argue I still found you, didn’t I?” He wraps an arm around hers and gives her a smile, half-grieved, half-indulgent. “Let us go quickly.” His eyes flicker towards the men. Piercing crimson, a dark blood-shade. He wonders if those outside of Braxigar still knew to fear them, and their stumbling back made him believe the answer was yes. “I saw a peculiar little stall on the way here, one that I most wanted you to see.”

He whisks her away, past the bumbling fools. A small sun on his arm, and a new book under the other. They do not rush nor run, but still they overcome those who had been watching. Moments after, Cian’s voice finds her in a whisper. “You could’ve rid yourself of them in a number of other ways. Still could.” It is not meant to encourage cruelty; if anything, there is a question in it. “You’ve a kindness for not doing so. Please, allow me to see you to safety, lady Altinsoy.” Cian tilts his head at her, almost as if a bow. “If only just until we find you proper company again.”

[talesinrequiem]

the dark sands of heliophra where something to get used to. his eyes looked over them as he walked, watching for signs of life. creatures that weren’t of his own world. while there was no drive in him to want to live anywhere other than nithiri keep, cavit has found himself curious. also, curious of what could be lurking beneath the ground. imagine, what sort of creations the land had to provide. things the people around them had never thought of to dig for. was it restraint? was it the lack of creativity?

cavit was not one to know. unfortunately, cracking open someone’s skull to try to understand them wasn’t something that actually worked for him. his hands weren’t good at that sort of delicate work.

still, his feet brought him beyond his wondering and supplied a new thing to ponder. someone was playing in the garden. tilting his head to hear better, he allowed his natural urge to bring him through the paths leading him to hair that seemed to be made of moonlight, sparkling in the night. their surprise brought a smile to his face. one that wasn’t cruel, but meant to be disarming. even if he often wasn’t.

“my apologies,” he offered up, his hands going to show he held no weapon if ill intent. “i was in my wanderings of this land i am so unfamiliar with but heard you singing.” cavit paused as his eyes took not of the lyre in their hands. “and playing, it seems. truly a gift you have..” from the looks of them, they were a malaric. one he had not had the chance to speak with.... there was another pause before he offered a half bow of his head, "i am cavit, would it trouble you to have company for a short while?"

[prodigxlis]

Bare hands bring no comfort, as Ásta takes a step back—it is unthinking, like a flinch. Their dark eyes flicker over his frame, taking in what they can and quickly, as if thief hearing the jingling of keys: hazel eyes, scarred fingers, and clothing too fine to be anything lesser than an opulent merchant’s dress; patterns and jeweled gold both. Soon, Ásta finds a pebble to talk at, before they further speak to the stranger that has just arrived. “No need for apologies.” Softly said, followed by a stiff chuckle. “This garden is public? I believe, so, it is not as if—as if you would be intruding, if you were wishing to take a walk. Or, ah, whatever you’re here for, if not that.”

Still being addressed? Ásta thought it was nothing but pleasantries, as oft was when they were found a bit too odd for one’s liking. Their fingers work at the strings unknowingly, tune faint. “No, of course not! I meant to say—It would not trouble me. As noted, this is no private land and it is all quite foreign to me as well—” Finally, their gaze sets on him again, and they bow their head slightly in embarrassment. “And... Thank you. For the kind words.”

The music fades as they look at the bench where they had been but a moment ago, where the discarded broken string lays. They pluck it hastily, pocket it and dust off the seat, just for good measure. “You can sit down, my… lord?” Ásta ventures a guess. “If you wish, I can play a song for you?”

[vainglcriousx]

With his lute strapped upon his back, Evandris followed a path through manicured gardens. Heliophra was divine, the kind of place that begged to be immortalized upon canvas with paint, but he had wished to compose dulcet melodies in her honor. Music came to him, in blocks of notes, random pieces that he would fixate upon and need to compose down into full compositions. Since their arrival in the warm sands of Heliophra, he found himself humming unknown tunes, his subconscious already putting together music based on what he could see beyond his carriage window. When a free moment had presented itself to him, he had politely excused himself from the party he had surrounded himself with and instead stolen away into the darkness. He needed a quiet place to put music down to parchment, to see what he could make of the spark of inspiration that found its way to him.

As he meandered through the garden, pausing occasionally to observe flora he had not seen within the perimeter of his own home, he heard a sound. Unmistakable, the soft pull of strings. Pausing in step, he slowed even his beating heart to strain and listen for the notes. Another musician had found their way there it seemed, and after a moment of just listening, he followed a new trail, one where the music grew louder as he proceeded. Before he could happen upon them more naturally, announce his arrival in a gentler way, his foot had slipped on uneven ground, and Evandris nearly stumbled into bushes which rustled from the disruption. Stilling, he lifted his head to find the lone traveler with lyre in hand. He held up his hands defensively, palms outward as his lute swung over his shoulder.

“ Forgive me, ” he called out into the garden, taking more careful steps until he was free of the brambles. Entering into a clearing that was clearly meant for one to observe the majesty of the flora planted there, he kept a careful distance as he side stepped around, maneuvering to face the other more head on. With one hand seizing the neck of his lute, he wound until the instrument sat in front of him, against his chest, and smiled impishly at the other velkynar. “ It would appear we may have had a similar idea, ” Evandris remarked, fingers subtly grazing the strings of his own instrument. After a moment, he plucked out a similar melody to that which he followed to get there. He realized it was not a melody exactly, but the sounds accompanying a restringing of an instrument. Still, his smile hadn’t faded. “ I was looking for a quiet space to compose, and thought I heard some music. I did not mean to intrude. It is rare I get to spend time with another troubadour outside of ale rooms. I was curious. ”

[prodigxlis]

Ásta knows of nobility outside of Drakathar as they know of anything not scale-winged nor stringed: vaguely. Yet it is basic education to memorize the houses, and their wide and guileless eyes had learnt quickly in their travels the difference between a noble’s garment and a merchant’s dress. Royal, low-born, and those that would be deemed less: it was not difficult for Ásta to recognize in a glance where he belonged. A peer, and from Morkhul, if the eyes and the glance at his ears spoke true. Such knowledge brings no relief, but rather, a shift to Ásta’s feet.

“Ah, yes. It is a good night to… To play. And—compose?” Their eyes had flickered away in shyness, but now they flicker back at his frame. At the sight of the instrument in his graceful hands and the sound of his sweet short melody, their onyx eyes startle, then shine. “Your lute!” They take a step forward, before stopping and blushing. “Ah—forgive me, just.” A small, proper bow, followed by further stumbling. “Just—Is that perhaps one beyond a common lute? I’ve yet to see one of its like. The ones from my lands all look like… You know.” They raise their lyre slightly. Moonlight on blackthorn wood, amber bridge; beautifully carved yet paired with weathered paints. “Could I—” Please, let me not embarrass myself any further, but they cannot help the desire to ask. “May I see it?”

[rotfire]

closed     starter     for     ;    vaelor    &     ásta. [ @prodigxlis ] place        ;    elaris keep, at the private quarters for house malaric

No  word  or  guttural  offering  has  been  exhaled  from  him  yet  since  their  arrival.  No  excessive  turn  of  his  head.  Neither  was  the  fracture  of  stoicism  granted  like  a  bridge  over  the  open  water  between  them. For it was all  treacherous,  the salt laid  between  them,  corroding  along  the  steel  of  their  lineage.  Vaelor  turns  the  argent  signet  on  his  finger,  as  if  he’s  deep  in  thought,  as  if  he  had  taken  the  harsh  wind  of  Draegor  Keep  with  him  to  the  sweltering  summer  heat  of  Elaris  Keep.  He  hears  the  shuffle  of  feet  of  their  servants,  quick  padded  with  even  quicker  fingers. 

He  thinks  of  himself  with  the  crown,  perched  neatly,  gold  covered  on  golden  locks,  and  for  a  moment,  there’s  a  fleeting  thought  of  remorse,  a  gnawing  irritation  that  he  tries  to  stuff  deep  within.  For  if  he  shall  deliver  ruth  upon  his  constituents,  one  must  bear  the  weight  first. A sigh is held as Ásta’s  footsteps  grow  in  sound, his  gaze remaining  forward, shoulders still broad and mountainous.  For  a  moment  there  was  only  the  wind  between  them,  a  high  altitude  that  knew  no  reprieve.  When  he  sees  them  in  his  peripherals,  near  the  hearth,  with  only  ash  in  its  confines;  Vaelor  does  not  move  or  turn  to  speak.

[prodigxlis]

The door opens with a careless bang, and Ásta walks in already speaking, continuing the long one-sided conversation that had started the moment the list had arrived to Draegor’s halls, and that had gone from hysterics to terror-filled silence to nervous laughter and now ceaseless yaps. They flutter to his side like an oversized hummingbird, chatty and fraught. “—I saw carriages of sapphires and gilded blooms ride into the courtyard, as if bringing spring. Morkhul, it must be, musn’t it be? Do you think it is those—Verathorms, I think, of which there are two wishing for the throne—Oh, let me, ehm, help—” Ásta grabs a small bag from a servant’s trembling arms, and places it on the floor with a thud. Inside it, something rattles, and they both wince. “And—and I think I saw the girl, once, and she was not so bad?”

“—and, uh, just. Ha. We’ve arrived, so surely—surely you will tell me now what it really means?” Their voice lowers into a nervous whisper, as fragile as crystal. Because it has to be a play, it must. Must be something that does not mean what it seems it means. Ásta is supplicant, begging for it to be anything but it. “Please, Vaelor. Tell me it is not this!”

[prodigxlis]

closed starter for orion tethalune ( @wanshangs ) location: the stock-room of elaris' library, perhaps hiding more? time: past midnight, the evening of night

Heliophra is a place of many blooms, and so wallflowers are not hard to find—even if such a practice has always escaped Ruoxi. Since the moment her hands had grasped sunlight, there had not been a moment in which she did not shine when she walked into a room. And as such, scuttling around like a bug attempting to avoid the stampede of the crowd is novel to her, and in a way that smarts. Finding herself at the library is even worse, and she wonders if this is how she will finally burst into flame: not under the fury of the day’s star, but in the oddity of stepping into the kind of place she most enjoys to mock.

But nature is nature, and even in such stillness, Ruoxi has to move. Elaris Keep was no stranger, but neither was it friend, yet Ruoxi would take liberties nonetheless. She slips while all is unattended into the back-rooms of the place, thinking to harass whatever hapless servant has been stuck with this chore rather than the hassle of corralling wayward nobles (like herself truly). She expects nothing—despite herself, despite how much she wishes, still have a chance—and as such, finding ararity such as this brings a glint to her golden eyes. This one did not belong, she thought of the figure, one still slouched and unaware.

With panther-grace, she slithers to their side, and then, as if prone to bite, leans forward until her chin almost rests on their stiff shoulders. “And who may this be?” They whisper, almost snake-hiss. “This intruder, this one who does not belong here.”