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@rotfire
𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝙼𝚈 𝚂𝙸𝙴𝙶𝙴 𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙱𝙸𝚁𝙳𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙻, 𝙰𝙽 𝙴𝙻𝙴𝙶𝚈 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝚁𝚄𝙽 𝚁𝙴𝙳
+ a dependent rp blog affiliated with the group @.nocturniafm. dni if not part of the group. mythicized by rowe.
+ vaelor malaric ; myth. / musings. / visage. / aes. + diya tripathi ; myth. / musings. / visage. / aes. + marya morvaen ; myth. / musings. / visage. / aes.
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.”
Vaelor sees the shrink in their shoulders. The closing of their lips. The tense wire, tautened and stiff, that hung between them like a line one wasn’t ready to cross. A cord laid frost bitten, too thin to bear any of their weight. Perhaps Vaelor could speak in ruins. Could speak in a song and a tune to meet them halfway, but Vaelor only looks, his salt eyes only a glacial pressure. Silence stretches, and his gaze falls to their crossed hands, one laid on the other. As the first tear drips, Vaelor still does not speak, does not trust his voice to. But a mountain peak settles upon the siege of his shoulders, and his heart thickens with stone as he feels the chill of their tears falling down upon the blade of his spine. He does not move, but he cuts the air as he speaks, long after they’ve gone silent. " Do you think I do these things without weighing them? "
A slight burst of frustration trudges upward, but he swallows it down, forcing it beneath the armor of his stoicism, back beneath every crust and ache. It’s bitter, like dirt and old grief. " What for? " Vaelor’s jaw tightens slightly as the wind worries through every muscle. He picks his feet from near the hearth, and soft paces close the distance towards them. Hue of voice a mere breath. " Do you wish another to feel what we felt? " There’s no echo of footsteps now, only a memory that takes ascent. Of a face so youthful it got punished by the greed of an unknown shadow. " When Iva- " The name dies in his throat the same time his heart leaps. An unbearable strike. It’s sudden, the pressure he feels behind his eyelids. A tremor surging through his marrow. The pain intensifies as his head starts pounding, his brother's name still covering like a mantle around the muscle of his heart. Still, he continues. " When our brother was murdered. It cleared many visions for me. " A breath. " Yet, you speak as I haven’t been bred my entire life for this. I am the heir and the eldest. My sole purpose is to protect. " And you’re the secondborn and a bard in the mountains, carrying half of my heart each time you go. " And this realm needs protection. "
A faint breath escaped her, not quite a sigh, though it carried the shape of one. the corner of her mouth curved ever so slightly at his question, enough to acknowledge the jest without fully surrendering to it. “only when i'm responsible for the outcome,” she replied smoothly. which, unfortunately, was most of the time. her gaze followed him as he stepped closer, taking in the familiar figure amongst the endless tide of arrivals. there was something almost reassuring in it. not because vaelor represented simplicity. he decidedly did not. but because some people remained themselves regardless of circumstance. that had become increasingly rare. “surprisingly few complaints,” she admitted. “though the evening is still young.” a pause followed as another carriage rolled through the gates behind him, servants already moving toward it with practiced efficiency. at his question, something quieter settled over her expression. “it has done me some good,” she answered truthfully. not enough. but some. “there are worse places to recover than one's own hollow.”
her gaze drifted briefly toward the lanterns burning throughout the courtyard before returning to him once more. this time it lingered a fraction longer. thoughtful. assessing. “and yourself?” the question came softer than the formal greetings she had spent the evening offering. “i imagine drakathar feels considerably different after a month spent waiting for the council to decide the fate of the world.” a faint pause followed. “though perhaps waiting is not quite the right word.” the corner of her mouth curved faintly. “some of you have been rather busy.” there was no accusation in the observation. only recognition. council member. crownwearer candidate. two responsibilities that had a way of attracting attention whether one welcomed it or not. her eyes held his steadily for a moment before drifting toward the arriving procession once more. “i confess i am curious which role has demanded more of your patience these past weeks,” she said lightly. “the council's burdens, or the crown's ambitions.” the faintest trace of dry amusement touched her voice.
Vaelor smiles, the indentions of smile lines curving in his cheeks. As he does, the warmth cuts through his face, the lines akin to a hardened stone carved by a mallet. It does not reach far, only towards the edge of his mouth, where the grief could still be seen under each moon. " Few? Hm give it time. " His shoulders are broad in their width, and Vaelor hopes the frost still clings to his skin. Only if it were to cool him in this heat, to unburden the oppressive closing fist that Heliophra brought. " People always do find their voice after the damage is done. " For they were both council members and heirs of a vassal house, and both knew the indictments the Velkynar could bring with them. Nuray even more so today, with the burden of host laid across her shoulders. A mantle that brought its weight and one that was not worn without costs. He does not envy her. For their realm still wasn’t safe, fragile like a cliff finding a fracture in its line. And with it, the dead still fell like flies, with nothing held but a shadow and the lack of honor in their name. " Still, I hope our Velkynars have the sense to spare you with most of their grievances. " Breathed kindly as the commotion around them rose in crescendo. He only nods at the comfort she held in her own hollow, forgoing his own words, though not his agreement.
But as the conversation dwindles to Drakathar, Vaelor thinks that even the safest ground has edges worth watching. He does not reply to it, but nods once more. And the serrated peaks flicker in front of him, where stone could be trusted unless it shifted, where the mountain learned to breathe one's name as they walked through it. Even the silence there, came with its own echo. When Vaelor speaks, he’s direct. " Drakathar does not change. It endures what it gets. " Whether it were snowstorm or hail, treachery or loyalties, it mattered little, each alike would fall upon the Drakathar soil with equal indifference. Still, Vaelor strives to suppress a knowing smile, and he listens carefully, his salt eyes bound to her gaze. Eventually, he lets the silence pass before he speaks. His expression steady, composed, the stoicism layered upon him once more. " Hm. Perhaps. " He starts carefully. " As for your distinction. " A breath. " You speak as though there are two paths. As though I am divided between two loyalties. Council against crown. In truth, and you know this as well as I do, that one rarely exists without the other speaking over it. " This time, Vaelor lets himself shake his head, slightly, briefly. His jaw just short of twitching. " The council has a way of concerning itself with what must be contained. And yet it continues to speak as though it is the same institution it was meant to be. " Hue of voice still unwaveringly moored. Vaelor reckons that Nuray is bright enough to read between each line of his. " And the crown the crown is in servitude to the protection of its realm. Yet it finds itself answering to institutions that no longer seem to share its real weight. " He speaks more softly now. " If chosen, I intend to bring change to that weight. " No shift in his limbs, only a steady gaze upon her. " For what it’s worth my ambition lies not in the way men like to accuse ambition of being. "
closed starter for : kaelen garramoth & marya morvaen location : abandoned garden outside elaris keep's gates time : close to sunrise , second day . [ @rotfire ] .
all life had evaporated from ruling lord of sheer castle . the man was a shell of himself , tormented by the lack of braxigar air and it's poison . he'd escaped his shackled confinements only to stand in an empty abandoend garden , looking over the dead plants stolen by the sun . it felt a little closer to home , closer to everything which had happened before he'd embarked upon this journey without his wife and with the knowledge of a betrayal by his son . he stood there , watching the death before him , letting his mind curl inwards on itself . his appearance anything but normal . he'd never let himself fall before , never let a hair out of place or stubble grow . yet , he was competely empty and void of usual remarks and demeanor .
the rustling from someone approaching made empty onyx hues turn . he simply gazed at marya for way longer than he would . no smile , no sneer , no remark or greeting . his arms hang loose against his sides until his head tilted back . " and the daughter appears . " he murmurs without emotion , with lack of everything . the fight within so strong he can barely muster anything . the world needed to burn , or so help the unknown ⸻ he'd sacrifice them all to get back what he lost .
Her dress billows like a shape stirred, the cloth light of fabric, letting the Heliophra heat in. As the hems drags across the gardens, the textile picks up the remnants of dust and sand. Marya breathes in the stale heat filled air. " The servants have been avoiding your wing. " Her silhouette, shrouded between hunger and design as the deathling closed the barrier between them. She carried no particularly deep feelings for the Lady of House Garramoth, only a rival who might claim, in part, the affection Marya felt she was due. Granted by rather right than grace.
But as Marya comes to stand next to him, her spine is tall but lightly bowed, where all of her limbs were oddly shaped as she, carefully and obscurely, leaned her head right below his shoulder. Her passage of movement was nothing short of odd and jarring, for the act of comfort and love was a motion she did not know how to give. Though her touch was light, and her head was still held in the most peculiar angle, there’s a slight change of her breath, an almost silent wheeze, as if the tide of his temper affected each of her sensations. " I can feel your wound, Pater. " A hush as she speaks. Still, she remains there, stitched against his shoulder. No violence yet, but the beginning of one. " I have put my ears against the glass. " For sound always did travel. " I shall have names soon. " A true Braxigar daughter; hound and mercenary.
closed starter for ; diya & hiran & arun [ @aenaos / @celcstine ] place ; elaris keep, somewhere deep in the woods
Here, deep in the belly of the woods, hung the verdant leaves of the ancient oak trees. All glistening like glass, slightly dewy, each one burdened by the tear like beads that gathered along their edges, bowing them all earthward under their weight. By now, as Diya walked, she could feel the muscles in her thighs burning, the ache born of exceeding her longheld endurance. Still, she was grateful for the gentle shadow of the moss like sage, where they were all sheltered beneath, the woodland breathing in a cooling murmur as the leaves stirred with the wind.
Woven sacks were carried, each one of them all bundled up; one with flasks of sweet wine, bread and hardened cheese and fruit. Even a few goose eggs that Diya had to politely beg the kitchen maid of Elaris Keep. It took her two days of heavy pleading before they relented. The other sack, carrying their ancient lore, its spine bound with heavy thread, the pages filled with tales of all knightly Tripathis. At early rise, she had dressed not fully plated, though silver still adorned her frame; around the curve of her shins, the softness of her midriff, and the bones of her shoulder. On the rest of her limbs, she’s hidden by silver chainmail.
And so came to be the youngest, full of spirit and newfound zest, the attribute of a dreaming swan. " I believe this spot of green should do nicely for our fire! " Voice high with excitement, for she wore joy as one would glory. Diya puts down her sack, a spring in her step. " I’ll see what dry wood I can find nearby. "
@aenaos
“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.”
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.
open starter from nuray altinsoy; courtyard of elaris keep — open [ 0 / 3 ]
Heliophra had always known how to welcome guests. lanterns burned beneath the dark sky like captured stars. servants moved steadily through the courtyard carrying water, wine, luggage, and instructions. banners bearing the colors of every hollow stirred gently in the desert wind. from the terraces above came the distant sound of music and conversation as more velkynar arrived with every passing hour. for weeks elaris keep had prepared for this. for weeks, nuray had prepared for this. the result stood before her now. carriages crossed the gates one after another. familiar faces. unfamiliar ones. allies. rivals. future crownwearers. every arrival greeted with the same measured courtesy expected of house altinsoy.
nuray stood near the entrance to the keep, hands loosely clasped behind her back as she watched another procession disappear through the courtyard. her posture remained flawless despite the long hours already spent receiving guests. only the faint shadows beneath her eyes hinted at the exhaustion she carried beneath careful composure. "welcome to heliophra," she said as another figure approached, her voice calm, steady, carrying easily above the noise of arriving nobles and servants alike. a small inclination of her head followed. "i hope the journey treated you kindly." for a moment her gaze lingered upon them, thoughtful. "though if it did not, i hope you'll blame the roads rather than our hospitality."
The lanterns roared like beacons of light, almost with a feverish brightness, and under it, figures surge and thread past each other. He can fish out the chatter of their voyage as they hold one another in greeting. And as the voices overlap around him like rising tide, his footfalls strike the desert ground in a ceaseless rhythm, where his mind is drawn back, unbidden, and always back to Drakathar. Where the cold was the first nip that greeted, and the mountains rose like a stone wave coming to crash. In the mountains, the melancholy pressed like an echo, the landscape akin to stone stacked upon stone like all the layers of the earth had compressed upon each other. Here, in Heliophra, he only felt the heat.
When she greets him, he nods once. With salt eyes that are neither cold nor detached, breath forming where no heat or strain could be found in his voice as he speaks, only an amicable cadence, shoulders forming into a welcomed front. " Do you always greet people like you’re managing a diplomatic incident? " It’s a jest, for their affiliation was more forthright and less diplomatic, and even though his lips don’t curl upwards, his shoulders are not tense as he walks closer. " Have you had complaints about the roads already? " He comes to stand in front of her. " Still, how have you been, Nuray? I trust being back in your hollow has done you well? "
Valkan had not come searching for company. the higher terraces of elaris keep offered something most gatherings below did not. distance. enough of it that the noise of arriving nobles became little more than an indistinct murmur carried by the wind. he recognized the figure standing near the edge before she spoke, though only in the way most noble houses recognized one another. a face attached to a name. a reputation attached to a bloodline. his attention followed her gaze briefly upward toward the scattered stars overhead. “wonderful is one word for it.” the reply came evenly, absent of mockery but not entirely convinced either.
cold wind pulled at the dark fabric of his coat as he stepped closer to the overlook, stopping well short of the edge she occupied. his gaze drifted from the heavens back toward the sprawling lights of heliophra below. at her talk of courting stars, the corner of his mouth curved faintly. “that sounds exhausting.” a small pause followed. “lovers are demanding enough without collecting an entire sky full of them.” for a moment his attention lingered on the darkness overhead once more, thoughtful rather than reverent. “though i suppose if anyone were stubborn enough to attempt it, it would be a poet.” his gaze shifted toward her then, calm and measured beneath the moonlight. “i've always found stars more useful as guidance.”
This time, Marya does not mimic his gaze, does not imitate the closing of one’s limb to another. Instead, she simply stands there, washing her eyes over the width of his frame. " It would appear so, for most people tire far too easily. " Never her. For a killer never abandoned their lust for blood. It was a hunger she felt near the stone in her stomach, where each and every single moral of hers slipped into a descent. And whatever lived in her, it spoke in its own tongue, thin and cutthroat. " It is a common thing, where attachments turn into liabilities when they stay unmanaged. " This time, Marya closes the gap between them, the scenery around them only darkening despite the glittering gems in the sky. She felt closer to it the more she stood here, on the highest point in the tower, with the ether on her tongue turning metallic as the stardust in the air brightened.
A huff of breath, the motion succumbing into a half laugh that lacked all its grace. " The fault lies not with the sky of lovers, nor with the poet, I believe it lies in allowing any of them the illusion that they matter. " No living thing on the earth would matter more to her than the dead. Perhaps her Pater, but even he would understand that her faith took precedence above all. Marya walks even closer, her hands in front of her before she decides to loosen them, and entwine them behind her spine. If one couldn’t see her hands, one might wonder what could be held in her fist. " The stars that I like to keep you see, they do not talk back. They do not guide either. They stay where I put them. " For here the deathling comes again with riddles. Her own indulgence to her work, as such worked her mind, arranged like bones set into a pattern only she could discern. A tilt of her head, and a question offered to him. " But how curious you made me, where would you like the stars to guide you? " Voice shrill and playful.
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!”
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. "
open starter for : chantara thanachalerm & open [ accepting 0 / 3 ] location : library for elaris keep time : in the middle of the night , second day
slender finger flip through pages of a book about herbs and growths in heliophra . in truth , she wasn't paying attention to the book at all , her mind was filled with swirling confusion and worry . her beloved had applied for the crown , her closest friends had betrayed her for made up tales and she missed her family more than anything . leaving asharok had been difficult , watching lenore lie straight to her face even worse . life had suddenly began to take turns she had never believed they would . yet , she found herself seeing reason . she would grow stronger , pride herself upon her purity and polish it into diamond , make herself unmoving .
the door the library creaked and citrine hues lifted . " there's only me in here , there's space for two . " she murmured without noticing who it was , her absent orbs placed back upon the book before her , while her mind was somewhere else completely .
" Then it seems a shame to leave it empty. " Hue of voice deep and low, tinted with the sweetness he only reserves for her. He takes a few steps, shoulders broad, and as he dips towards her, the fabric that dons the breadth of his frame moves as if underwater, gentle and flowing, his soft lips coming to peck on her temple before he kisses the corner of her lips. " Heliophra’s heat suits you. " Pallid eyes fall on her jade like skin, smooth and warm to the touch, bare for his viewing. He does not let his eyes linger for too long, does not let her dissolve under the caress of his gaze. Instead, he comes to settle beside her, like a stone finding its place, with his chest turned towards her in a quiet alignment. " Have you settled, my love? "
By now, large hands had found a soft velvet cloth, wrapped around a bracelet made of gold and birthstones. A dragon, fierce and snarling, who would curve around the delicate bone of her wrist like a sleeping legend, reminding her of the strength she already posessed. He hands it to her, and speaks gentle and smooth. " I had this made the moment our betrothal was decided. Not out of duty or because tradition demands it. " Each scale etched with careful devotion, rubies and sapphires carved from the deepest of the Drakathar mountains. " I did not want to place some heirloom in your hands and call it a gift. I wanted to give you something that began with you, something that has been made with you in mind from the first blaze of the fire. " He hopes the bracelet would stir against her skin, the scales moving like runes coming alive. " For you have my strength already, and my hands as well. And whatever else I can spare. " His long legs are drawn in measured ease as his hand finds its rest in the hollow between leg and hip. For once, his spine is unrestrained unlike the regimental pose he so often keeps.
it was strange to now call heliophra home. to desperately try to be accepted by those that live in this sun soaked lands, and before such acceptances could be given, have family, friends and enemies from braxigar come through the gates. already luz had begun to look at those from braixgar as other. no longer neighbors and peers, but ones from somewhere else. somewhere she no longer belonged.
that did not mean luz did not know them. and while they could trust some, other's luz would never turn their back on.
seeing the red haired velkynar ascend the keep, luz could not help but follow. marya was an interesting one, for certain, and that was proven by her choice of words when she looked up at the starry sky. "an interesting observation," luz muttered, arms crossed as they kept their distance. "one might look upon the night sky, the new stars that seem to appear every few years, and view it as birth. not death." speaking of death, they took another step forward, "i heard of lady garramoth's passing, is there anything else known?" perhaps those within braxigar know more then is being told to the other hollows.
A slight inclination of her head served as her only movement, as though she was merely weighing her words, her assessment in the making, each crevice and wheel in her mind trying to unseal a crypt. Still, whenever Marya looked, her eyes beheld not the warm flesh of a living creature, but instead the dread that followed as cold as the dead. And as Marya stood there, near the edge and under the blanket of the pinpricked gems, the deathling always did bring back forth the darkest horrors from Braxigar, as though the land was nothing more than a mere shape she had sutured onto herself. " You cannot have birth without death. A trade must always take place. And I can only presume that it must be the same in our celestial vault. " Garnet eyes fall back upon the darkened sky above her, and for a moment, she wishes to reach out her hand once more, to touch that stardust, so her hands may stay into weapons still.
No flinch was made when Luz uttered her name, and no rivalry was found in her echo as she repeated it. Marya is careful with the words she speaks next, though she lays a deliberate emphasization on certain syllables. " Lady Garramoth’s passing mm. Tragic, is it not? That they dared take one of ours? " No movement in any of her limbs, and no rise and fall of her chest that was bare to the eye. " But the absence of detail is in itself informative. If there was a word, it has not reached my ears yet. " Marya blinks. " But word did reach me that you crawled out of your birth hollow to come sweat in this heat. "
it seemed there was no end to his wish to know more of the place they were called to. his legs had even carried him to the highest points of heliophra. where it seemed, stars came to die. they had been a fascination from cavit’s childhood. twinkling gems in the sky that his family could never touch. how could that be? how could there be something he yearned for he could not have? but in this keep, it was as if he could breathe them in.
despite his focus, he could not help but see another figure in the area. could not help but follow the same path as they stood out to look upon the area. her words were gift wrapped just for him. something in him shifting as she spoke. if he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought she was from home. ravenous and yearning. “you are a gifted poet,” he murmured softly, his eyes only darting to her for a moment before they moved back to the sky around them.
“would you keep a piece of all your lovers?” he questioned curiously, there was no disgust or worry in his tone. he kept something from all of his. be it just memories or something more tangible. cavit had never been allowed to want for something in his life. always already in his hands or told that if he yearned for something or someone, he must take them himself. "or only some?"
The curl that dons her mouth comes like a stitched wound, like thread and needle that had been roped by an unsteady hand. Still, the slight affection in her breath is not withheld. Marya mimics the gaze of his eyes, a deliberate motion as she tilts her head to the heavens; and in there lies the act, to seam more human, more commonplace, less than the executioner that she was. Her voice is light and high, clear in all its syllables. Often, one did not know if the deathling belonged to air or a memory. " Does a poet not keep a piece of every lover? " It’s a trial as much as it's an examination. The hidden probing only a private reprieve. " For is that not what poetry is? A trinket? A lock of hair or a sound? " To take life and make it mine? To be dreadfully bound by blood and ligament where she held onto one’s spirit in her fist, only to feel the heart and nerve lessen in their vitality. Her reminiscence bears her warmth.
As does his curious approach, where no tension was held to his frame, where his eyes did not yield from her gaze. Though it lends her no detachment, Marya closes the gap between them, only briefly and like a wisp, leaning into take in his scent, to memorize each layer of note. " One must immortalize their lover. So nothing is ever truly lost. " As she did with her prey; where a necklace or a signet was snagged from their limbs, or a corset torn from its midriff. Each trophy scattered back to the darkest corner of Helia Bastion. Her eyes flicker down, tracing each stitch of his fabric. Came she, with riddles and puzzles. " Do you think you would enjoy my poetry, My Lord? " His name wittingly withheld. Though she knew each soul, for now, Marya decides to play fair.
closed starter for ; diya & morella [ @talesinrequiem ] place ; heliophra, elaris keep, training yards, witching hour
The heat seeps inside her, into the argent steel of her armor, for even at night, Heliophra’s heat was a sweltering, feverish hush; all pressed beneath the gazing moon’s indifference. Diya stands as a lady knight must, with her spine straightened as if it's held by a rope, with her jaw tilted high enough that one could say she carries just enough pretension as one should as a newly vowed dame. She had hoped to leave the confines of her hollow, to charge with sword and arrow into a new horizon.
And as another knife hits the square, within the lines yet slightly off center, she imagined herself arriving as the heat did; with the hooves of her thoroughbred running in full force, each gate splitting open as she barged through, her silhouette being carved like a battlefield she had always longed to win. Another knife digs in, and her eyes track sideways. " Shouldn’t you be resting, My Lady? "
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.
open starter for ; marya & ? [ CLOSED ] place ; elaris keep, somewhere high, close to the heavens
The climb had been steep, yet Marya’s muscles did not feel the burn or the ache with the winding caress of the labor. And as the ascent stretches behind her, the deathling walks as if her feet are pointed, turned downwards into knives, careful yet slinking; the prowl long learned from childhood obedience and distance. Marya comes to stand right at the very edge, and with both of her stomach and teeth hungry, she is here for nothing less than the litter of stars ( a peculiar hunger ). Once, she had heard the tales spoken warmly, of how the luminaries in this keep turned their remains to a weapon forged. Marya wonders how tall she must make herself to pluck the stardust from the sky.
But footsteps follow her still, and no flinch or jolt runs up her spine. " Isn’t it wonderful to see the heavens die from here? " And wouldn’t it have been wonderful to feel the blood of Lady Garramoth either? The warmth, gushing over each of her fingers as she felt the soft stomach dip. She keeps the sentiment to herself, and garnet eyes come to turn, everlastingly cold. " I could court each star as a lover and keep the dust as my remembrance. " For why wouldn’t she? After all, she was a poetress of blood. With the sky as black as tar in front of her, Marya stretches her neck, and tilts her jaw upwards. " A curious sanctuary indeed. "
“You can’t hurt me.” Cian speaks before he can think better of it—childish and sure-of-it, like a child pointing at a dog. It is true and full of comfort, just as much as it must be a most vicious sting to her. Gratifying to say, and all the more for it.
“Abandoned to the cold?” His chin dips, cannot bear to raise it much in her presence—but his eyes gleam with hatred. “You forget which one of us lives in my father’s hearth, and which one crawls the earth behind us. You cannot hurt me,” He repeats, surer now. “for he would hurt you. But if I hurt you.” He leans forward. His hands tighten, mouth twists. The only dagger of Cian’s that can truly cut with is the one of his words but he would, were he allowed to, were his admiration and respect for his father were not stronger than any soil. She exists only because he wishes her to—even if he does not have the claws she does, he would figure a way to rip her to shreds with dull fingers. He would, he would. “But if I hurt you.” He leans back. Cian does not finish the thought.
Rage fits like a too-heavy cloak around Cian’s shoulders: he trembles under the weight. It is soothed only because he is speaking what she already knows and wishes to forget. “Were that you were the heir, and me the shadow lurking behind. I’d like to believe I’d at least known the meaning of shame, and of pride.”
Cian lets her words slip down like cold water on heated skin; they wish to make him shiver and come close to it, but he will break his own spine before he shows it willingly. He should’ve known he would get nothing from her. Like casting pearls to swine. “You speak true.” He admits, voice deceptively civil. The venom underneaths hides like the creatures she likes. “It is possible he simply told you nothing, and that is what I would get. Maybe you are nothing but hands he deems acceptable to martyr. It would not surprise me.” He shrugs. “Forgive me, lady Morvaen—your house has always been meant to be servant to ours. I assumed too much.”
There is truth like any other that they both know in her words, so he does not shake at them; simply the way they were brought, different blood through their veins, but the same crawling nature. “And then where will we go?” He asks, but already knows; wishes to hear it from her again. “We cannot let them kill us.” He hisses, but Cian is not thinking of those brought back from the dead. Carved stone, silken scarves, blue moonlight streaming through painted glass—clinking jewelry and wide white smiles. Ignorant bastards, heartless curs, faithless idiots. The hatred pours so easily when he is around her; she bleeds it out of him, like a leech.
“Should not care what burns…” He mutters. Does Cian care? He cares about Nocturnia as much as he cares about what it sits upon it: his father, his mother, his friends, those he loves and cares for. But if he could have them and not it, he would not mourn the loss much. “No effigy to burn, no star to shine the path—foundation, where they will build their temples of wood to burn in the face of the fire. Their—rock.” A dreadful suspicion comes to him like a sudden strike—finally, he looks at her. A mad gaze, piercing and stabbing, quick and burning. Rock. Shape that holds.
It cannot be—he must be imagining it, fake, a twist of words misinterpreted in a moment of madness. Idiocy. His mind running away from him. For if it were so, it would surely be under his father’s orders and—No, no. He looks away and waves it away like he does the night terrors, like he does when he feels the rumors of them all being mad being more true for him than in other people’s minds. It just cannot be.
The taste of the thought will remain.
There are shadows everywhere. “Are there any that you believe will put their foot forward? Have you deigned to learn their names?”
If death could smile, it would be the dividing stretch of Marya’s teeth and gums. " I will make you discover where you are weakest, Cian. " Warning or a prophecy? " I can see beneath the skin, and I do not stop at the flesh. I will find every bruise of yours, and I will strip you to the softest parts of yourself. " Her tone takes no flutter or dip, only the chill of a numbing vacancy of a pause when her tongue finally comes to leash itself. " There is nothing that will live beyond your hurt. " Nor do the victims of her own slight of hand, who always did try to depart like a bird taking flight, their dignity abandoned mid ascent. How their terror was always so polite in its infancy.
For Cian might lift his arm or tongue to take his swing, but it is Marya that lives in the house of the dark, where cruelty was a companion that lived through each of the cracks of Helia Bastion’s blackened stones. Such potency flooded through their blood and water; an intrusion where the marrow surged and grew narrow.
And so her limbs slipped into misalignment, her fingers closing around a bird’s neck, all the while her heart only swelled further, as if her affection had rewritten itself into becoming a sickness. " Say it without the poetry, brother. Or I will. " A breath. Fig and myrrh rotting. " Your father’s hearth is no barrier to me. Nor will he hurt me. " Marya leans in, only slightly. Vindicated in her own syllables. " For I am the man your father always hoped you’d turn into. " And for she was the dread that played with flesh, who understood the rhyme and reason of their hollow’s prophecy, and shared it with his father’s perception. And it was his father took her as a right hand; appointed not only in trust but in blade. Weapon and verdict. And who was she, if not both the devil and judgement, proudly bound to a singular attentive shape?
To become her was to be molded into her. " Shame comes to those that question their place. I will never. I do not need to imagine myself an heir, Cian. I am what my blood makes me. " A killer. It’s the guillotine blade she wields next. " But it does please me to know you would know your place, should our titles be reversed. " Eye sockets as cold as her lifeblood, as though no light could ever sink into that garnet depth of her gaze, a tide washing like a river of blood. " If I am only hands do remember that it is your father that is holding them. " Marya mimics his shrug; to relate, to feel closer, to pretend her heart could beat the same sync and rhythm as his. " I do wonder what you think happens to hands that aren’t. " She makes no more grand elaborations, for even a child could decipher the reasoning.
As Cian speaks, Marya flickers her gaze upon the dead land in front of them, where the scent of rotting decay grew with each step she started to take. She does not answer his inquiries, only holds him against the furthest length of her sleeve. " I know each name there is to know. " There’s finality in that, and her eyes fall back upon him, her gaze lingering on the growing bush of auburn. Perhaps their similarity dissolved there. Marya smiles like death again. " You want certainty, and that is not what I can give. If I gave you your answers, Cian, you would cease to think of me. " Hue of voice low yet shrill, a devastating contradiction. Her mocking continues. " So I won’t. Only riddles. To keep you close to me. " And to see the burden of you solving them, for how else will I learn your bruises?
perhaps it would take some time for heliophra to accept her, but luz had been fighting for acceptance her whole life, why had she suspected this was any different? what matter is there were people here that would fight alongside her and defend her against the nay sayers. whereas back home, she could count perhaps two people that might be willing to do such a thing. at diya's statement, luz's brows furrowed as memories of their childhood played in their mind. "it is hard to feel love and acceptance in a land cloaked in death," she explained, unable to being to explain to lady tripathi how the only thing they had ever learned as a child was the feeling of doubt and envy. it was not a conversation for this moment, unless luz had at least two more cups of ale.
she nodded, unable to think of hiran as anything other then responsible. but luz knew of his previous charge, and understood that the impact of his death was still weighting on the eldest tripathi. perhaps being here will allow him the focus needed. "you will. you were born for this, and i have confidence you will make your family proud," wasn't that what the all wanted to hear? and as luz looked upon diya, they knew those words were truthful. she would fit into the shoes her brother left perfectly.
her question caught luz off guard, enough that they had to take a moment to think before speaking, "back home my life consisted of training, and the prospect of violence. the knowledge that i was merely a hand to deliver a killing blow," she spoke without thinking, the words flowing out of her, "but i never wanted that. i have no interest in killing people, or things, unless it is necessary. and i had always felt weak for it. for wanting to protect others instead of harm them. for not embracing my cruel and heartless nature." she paused, taking a lot drink. "but your brother made me realize perhaps that is not my nature, and that i can be more. be better. be good. that was not an option at lumien keep, but it is one here. he saw that in me when no one else did."
How sobering words can be; the ache of a misplaced home, and it strikes her in full as every trace of the sweetened wine fades fully, rinsed off like a wave washing over. Diya keeps her voice full of light. Her tongue still tastes sweet. " Then I wish you to find love and acceptance in the land of the sun. " For she hoped her hollow would treat Luz with dignity and acceptance. As much as Luz could bear the scorch of the hearts within her new hollow.
Still, when the Solkarith’s faith in her vow took words, it wouldn’t be too far off to say that Diya’s heart took a leap, a swift run around the river of her home, around the vines that decorated the stone walls, trailing a ladder all the way across her open window with the joy she felt. For a second, she feels lightheaded with the praise, then she plants her feet back firmly to the ground and smiles so wide that little dimples show upon the apples of her cheek. " You’re kind. I just hope that through it all I will be worthy of my vows in the end. Not only in duty, but in heart. "
For that will be her vow. To stand tall like a pillar. To carry the strength of her own namesake. " It is one thing to make that promise under a glittering ballroom hall and a ceremony. But it will be another to keep them when the life I know grows unkind. Still, your faith in me warms me, my sweet Luz. "
How carefully she listens, how delicate the words brush the hollow of her ears. Diya does not dare to interrupt, lest she nestles her vision where it was not wanted. So instead, her doe eyes remain gentle and kind, and when she comes to speak, her words are filled with pride for the other. " To refuse cruelty when it is expected of you I don’t see anything weak in that. " Long, bronze arms engulf Luz’s shoulders, and Diya smells like a bouquet of jasmine. " I am glad he saw you clearly. But I’m even more glad you’re here. You’ll make a worthy knight. "
