ー・From Ashes

[rozenflamme]

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━ an affiliated roleplay blog for LA SIGNORA as imagined by MilkBox

RULES. 

#1 This account is affiliated with Gnostic Hymns. I will only be interacting with fellow roleplayers under the same group, so kindly refrain from following or interacting if you are not a part of it.

#2 I will do my best to tag any triggers and mirror if my partner prefers to put them under read more. My tags for these will be very straightforward (tw: gore, tw: blood, for example). If ever I’ve missed a trigger in my posts, please feel free to message me directly.

#3 You have every permission to act violently towards Signora. All I ask is that you refrain from killing her out of nowhere or from causing any grave harm and injuries without plotting it with me beforehand.

#4 In terms of formatting, my default is the simple basic paragraph format with small text and coloured dialogue, but I tend to copy my partner’s format for uniformity. 

[rozenflamme]

[ATTENTION]: during an important conversation, the sender takes the receiver's face in their hands and firmly directs their focus on them.

After a certain point, the drowning roar of flames became white noise, background and unimportant to the singular point of focus before him, the pinpricks of light that let him know his quarry still yet lived, had not yet succumbed to a pile the same pile of char as all of the magnificent lumber that had crumbled to ash in the enduring, unfathomable heat.

She thought she made a pretty sight, that witch, enveloping the room in a dense cloak of intense red, scorching and groaning fire crawling forward and leaving black and blood in its wake, her cackles the undercurrent of a beating heart under all that power.

He had felt the rumble in his chest, that cautious stir, the ichor cracking one eye open before slinking through his veins, and then he showed her what hellfire truly looked like.

Everything smeared to ash under his bootsteps, tatami mat and pine beams fizzling and creaking and groaning around him in curls of smoke that filled the air with sparking motes and smoke, and when he reached the crumpled witch he knelt, tucked a clawed hand under her chin and ushered her face upward so that he could see what remained of the twin flames in her eyes before his hands came up to frame her face, palms pressed, searing, burning to her cheeks -

And he squeezed.

━ REASONS TO CUP A FACE.

Only fools would believe it hurt her still.

No, the heat had long since ceased to be a pain. To Rosalyne—to the Crimson witch—it was the closest thing to a lover’s embrace to her now, a molten kiss of ruin that curled around her every bone, whispering promises of oblivion, of rest at last, after years upon years of her vile existence. Red crept up her flesh, her veins rivers of liquid fire—yet she did not scream. Not anymore.

Rosalyne had screamed enough in her lifetime.

They were not so different, she and he. The man before her was a storm of ember and wrath, his flames devouring everything with a hunger that nearly mirrored her own. But where hers had been fires of grief, his was the inferno of decimation, unbiased as to who or what his flames might eat. How amusing that he thought his fire could frighten her. As if she had not let herself be devoured by her own flames, carved a home in the heart of the devastation it left behind. As if she had not cradled her own dying breaths in a cocoon of flame and named it rebirth.

His hands framed her face, searing, branding—yet she felt nothing. Or perhaps she felt everything, the numbness of a body long since surrendered to the blaze. She met his gaze and smiled. A broken, weary thing, cracked at the edges like the charred remains of her lips.

“Go on then,” she wanted to say. “Burn me. Reduce me to cinders. I have already burned a thousand times before.”

But words were ash in her throat, so she laughed instead, liquid flames trickling from the corner of her eyes, marring already scarred cheeks as the sound of her laughter crackled like crumbling timber.

Her cryo delusion lay somewhere in the wreckage, buried underneath all the ruins they had left behind, and oh, how her heart of molten lava ached for it so. How it wished for the numbing embrace of frost to still the fire in her chest. But no. Rosalyne was done hiding. She was done freezing her heart into something palatable, something survivable just so she could yet walk on this wretched land.

Right. The Crimson Witch had grown tired of surviving.

So when his hold only tightened, when her attention is drawn to the searing press of his palm against her skin, she did not flinch. Did not beg.

No, rather, she commanded.

For her flames to soar to life one final time, spending whatever is left of her as fuel—not in defence, not in defiance, but in a final invitation. Let the fire take them both. Let the inferno they had birthed between them be their pyre, grave, and last fleeting dance.

And as the world dissolved into white-hot silence, Rosalyne laughed, and laughed, and laughed—until even her voice was nothing but embers on the wind.

The heat had long since ceased to be a pain to the Crimson Witch.

How fitting, then, that she succumbed to it like a lover.

[soulprompts]

REASONS TO CUP A FACE. ( A PROMPT LIST. )

with the help of some very talented and amazing friends, i present to you an unexpected, very spontaneous meme list based on the beautiful art of cupping someone's face! there's a mix of romantic and platonic here, and even a few that defy the boundaries of normal relationship dynamics! i hope you enjoy! as always; DO NOT ADD TO THIS LIST NOR CLAIM IT AS YOUR OWN!

[KISS]: sender cups the receivers face in their hands before drawing them closer for a kiss.

[CHECK]: after an unexpectedly violent situation, sender frantically rushes to check if the receiver is okay, cupping their face to look closer.

[CLEAN]: sender affectionately wipes a smudge of sauce from the corner of the receiver's mouth, cupping their face in the process.

[LIFT]: sender gently cups the receiver's face and lifts their chin so the receiver is looking up at them.

[COMFORT]: sender cups a distressed receiver's face in their hands and steadies them by resting their foreheads together.

[ATTENTION]: during an important conversation, the sender takes the receiver's face in their hands and firmly directs their focus on them.

[MAKE-UP]: while applying make-up on the receiver's face, the sender cups their face in order to keep them still.

[PRIDE]: after the receiver succeeds in a remarkable achievement, the sender cups their face and tilts their foreheads together to express how proud they are of them.

[WHISPER]: in order to have a private, hushed conversation with the receiver, the sender cups their face and draws them close to make sure they can be heard.

[HAIR]: in the process of pushing the receiver's hair back from their face, the sender lets their hand rest against the receiver's cheek a moment longer.

[GROUND]: during a moment of intense emotional stress, the sender gently takes the receiver's face in their hands to ground them until they're calmer again.

[WONDER]: unable to comprehend how incredible the receiver is, the sender decides to simply cup their face in their hands and marvel at them instead.

[LAST LOOK]: before going into a situation that may result in their death, the sender takes a moment to cup the unaware receiver's face in their hand, just to take a final look of admiration at them before they go.

[SACRIFICE]: the sender cups the receiver's face tenderly to distract them, right before shoving them out of the way (to safety) and facing an attack alone in order to buy the receiver enough time to escape.

[BELIEF]: in a moment where the receiver is lacking in self-confidence, the sender cups their face tenderly and professes their faith in the receiver's abilities.

[DISBELIEF]: after the receiver has done something completely unexpected (and reckless) the stunned sender cups their face in their hands while trying to get them to explain why the hell they did it.

[BETRAYAL]: trying to keep the receiver calm before the big reveal, the sender cups their face gently to keep them steady, and then reveals that they're the villain.

[WOUND]: after the receiver has been wounded, the sender tries to keep them calm and conscious by cupping their face in their hands and talking to them to keep them focused.

[INJURY]: after having been badly wounded themselves, the sender tries to reassure the frantic receiver by cupping their face and comforting them.

[RAMSAY]: after the receiver commits a culinary crime, the sender presses two slices of bread against either side of their face, cupping their face to hold the bread in place, and calls them an idiot sandwich.

[rozenflamme]

Aether sits with amusement amidst the broken ruins, watching as the former Harbinger strayed through the forest paths, aimlessly moving towards that which once was and once could be again. He makes no attempt to shroud his presence from the fabled Crimson Witch of Flames, not when the abyss itself curls around his limbs like a venomous snake poised to strike. "O' Rozalyne, it would seem your grave was not the old world like the mad sage promised~" It's antagonism that seeps into his voice, sing-song in the ways of the mockingbirds of old, as he watches the witch move. "Renova has refused you death's sweet reunion..." Ominous hues of purples and blues swirl around his body as the once dormant Ruin Guard lifts him down, brings him eerily close to the woman before him. "A pity, that she views you unworthy while Rostam, Arundolyn, The Bloodstained Knight and even Thrain have been taken to her sweet embrace."

Everything around Rosalyne burned with searing heat, once green grass blackened into smouldering scars as liquid flame dripped from her still-open wounds. She was an incomplete moth—a pitiful creature torn from the chrysalis of death much too soon, torn wings still damp with the remnants of a resurrection she had never even asked for. Her eyes bled with wet flames, burning with a fury that could only belong to one who had been denied her peace, her sole wish to be reunited with her loved one, too many times. And her anger only grew twofold upon hearing his mocking voice.

“Silence! You do not get to speak their names! Not even that foolish Captain’s!” She hissed, the flames around her flaring violently as if they, too, could recognize her anger and hatred, and wished to direct it to the vile prince as well.

Like this, Rosalyne had only stepped even further away from the Maiden she once was, her elegance and wonderful voice twisting into something utterly unrecognizable. She was no longer the Fair Lady but instead, the awful witch people had fled from in terror. And oh, what a hideous monster she made. Flame consumed her limbs, painting them a vivid, searing red, and her eyes only burned with a hollow fury.

“You think your words can wound me? You think your petty taunts can compare to the agony of being denied what I sought for centuries?” She scoffed, a revolting smile spreading across scarred features as she readily met his gaze. “You are nothing but a fool—a fool who pretends he understands everything, if only to soothe his own lonely, mad heart. We are not so different, Prince of Khaenri'ah.” 

[balemouns]

a moment awake.

an unexpected encounter at a banquet at hotel debord.

[balemouns]

marked eyes scan as she listens to the woman before her speak, almost confirming on her own that she is not a mirage. her silhouette is only slightly altered --- different clothes from her usual ensemble in her days as a harbinger. but her voice, identical -- - her tone, sense of humor, if you want to call it that... identical, to a remarkable degree. a sigh as she listens to the nearly-musical questions and assertions of a woman once-scorned, but now seemingly arisen. a muttered thought is all arlecchino has at first as she starts walking again down the corridor, closer, until she can stop at the door in question in front of her. "the only ghosts that manifest in this manner around me are the ones taken by my hand, rosalyne. I know you're aware of that... and aware that I did not take your life."

not every harbinger knew the details of her curse. but enough of the ones she somewhat trusted did --- pierro, the captain, and the woman before her who should be dead --- and of course, so did the one that needed to know while experimenting on her blood.

head tilts as marked eyes scan up along the colors of the dress worn --- until the same veiled-place on her face is spotted, and expression stays calm, practiced. the fact that she's here at all... is almost absurd timing. there was too much else to do, not enough moments to spare to understand how she got here. she needed, first and foremost, to prioritize the means of getting into this party that her children had afforded her.

a dark hand reaches for the doorknob to the rented suite of mr. auguste, turning the knob and finding it opening easily. "... let's talk inside, mm? while I look around for what I'm here for. I'm sure you have much to tell me about why you're here, and how you're here at all," other hand flexes as she starts to step in, almost wanting to reach back to confirm what she'd seen and heard; but sharp nails curl inward instead, trusting that she could not imagine this specific level of la signora's mannerisms. once inside, arlecchino heads straight for a bureau on the far end, feet moving quickly. "I am a tad busy tonight, as I need to find documentation of this man's fraudulent activities. you're free to assist me if you'd like, but I want to know what's going on with you to facilitate your presence here in fontaine, first and foremost."

[rozenflamme]

Oh, how uncooperative the Knave can be at times, always so quick to correct her teases with cold, unyielding facts instead of playing along. It almost tugs her smile into a frown, but Rosalyne catches herself before she does, letting the expression settle into something in-between instead; an exasperated, lopsided smile, coupled with a brief scoff.

From where she stood, she watches as Arlecchino strides into the suite with purpose, always so sharp and swift. Rosalyne, meanwhile, trails behind with unhurried steps, hazy grey eye scanning the expansive room with a detached curiosity. Nothing catches her attention for too long, gaze flitting over the opulent furnishings and the faint traces of Mr. Auguste’s presence. Instead, she finds her attention drawn to the Knave again, her lips curling into another faint smile.

While she leaves her companion to sort through each and every drawer, Rosalyne found it more fitting that she, on the other hand, occupies the desk chair, crimson dress pooling around her like liquid fire as she settles into her new, temporary throne with an elbow on the arm of the chair, cheek cradled in her palm.

“Need you take time from your own schedule to search for it yourself? Surely the children could have done this much without trouble.” The question leaves her before she could stop herself, and already, Rosalyne could almost hear the Knave’s inevitable reply. Unlike Crucabena, this Knave always did seem to insist on handling the more menial tasks herself, didn’t she? A curious habit. One that Rosalyne finds both admirable and mildly exasperating. Good that she doesn’t use the kids like how that vile woman does. A shame that it oft means she’s busy, so much so that even with the help of the flame moths, it had been rather difficult to find her, only to catch mere glimpses before she’s off to do yet another thing.

Rosalyne’s gaze narrows, her uncovered eye fixed on Arlecchino while she hums to herself. “You are curious about how I am here,” she begins, and if one were to listen close enough, why, they’d find it almost sounds like she’s rather disappointed as she continues, “yet you don’t appear to be that surprised at all. Either you’ve mastered your mask, or you simply don’t care as much that I yet breathe.” She leans forward slightly, her feathered coat shifting like a shadow come to life. “Indulge me. Which of the two is the truth, Peruere?” And when she finally says her name, it rolls off her tongue with deliberate familiarity—a calculated provocation meant to pull the Knave’s attention from the documents to her.

[dukemeropide]

Still Smoldering Heart

Wriothesley & La Signora

[dukemeropide]

There were better days than this for a trek across Fontaine's ordinarily-idyllic countryside. What had begun a cloudy, breezy morning had darkened into a furious tempest that whipped through the pines and sent slanting rain down the verdant hills. The weather forecast had predicted nothing worse than a few scattered clouds, but in some contrarian act, nature defied those who tried to contain her, and the rare traveler who had decided to chance the rain found themselves thinking that the cold, dark depths of the sea would be better than here.

Including the man who had made those cold, dark depths his home for the past couple of decades. At least the Fortress of Meropide, for all its warts, was dry. Holding his coat fast beneath his chin against the wind, the Duke of that infamous Fortress made his way, step-by-careful-step, up the rocky incline toward the ruins of an old building nestled between the crest of the hill and the cliffs that ascended sharply into the mountain range that encircled the region to the north.

Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, don't cry, he thought wryly as he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding sheets of rain. Suddenly a bright, erratic white scar fissured across the sky, backlighting a shelf of bruise-like clouds, followed by the furious crack that echoed between the mountains like a giant had just fired a massive rifle into the sky.

"Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, don't be mad," Wriothesley amended with a laugh to settle the heartbeat that had leapt to his ears, and ducked through a crumbling wall into the rain-soaked remnants of one of the Research Institute's many scattered facilities. The roof had been blown to pieces long ago - likely by the initial blast, if the dark, mossy corners and the weatherworn stone were anything to go by - and a quick glance across the featureless rubble that littered the ground was enough for Wriothesley to tell that he would not find what he was looking for here. Most of the remaining shelves had been picked clean already, low hanging fruit for common thieves, so he ventured deeper inside. At this point, all he wanted was a little shelter from the torrential rain.

Near the wall at the very back of the building, he found a stairwell leading down to a second floor. This one, while better enclosed, had been built into the hill and faced outward toward the heart of the Research Institute, and so the exterior wall had been nearly completely destroyed. The roof offered some protection from the rain, but the wind drove it inward from the open side despite it, and so the floor was riddled with puddles. Here, too, there was little of value left. Some empty, broken shelves, empty frames, three-legged chairs, the huge boulders that had once been the wall that faced the bay, and even a decommissioned subdetection unit lying on its back, its metal legs sticking stiffly up just like a real, dead insect. Wriothesley swiped it from the block it had "died" on as he passed and shoved it into a small bag.

And deeper the building went. The next floor was nearly pitch dark, but at least it was dry. Wriothesley stopped at the last step at the bottom of the stairwell to remove his soaked coat by the light of the upper level and shake out the water as he decided how to proceed. Just then, something flickered in the corner of his eye. He stopped shaking his coat and glanced out across the impenetrable darkness. High above, the skies rumbled with thunder and the entire structure groaned with the wind.

A soft light drifted lazily out from behind a column or block of some sort near the center of the room. Some sort of butterfly, as far as Wriothesley could tell, that illuminated a small ring around itself. Dropping his coat by the stairwell and hiking up his damp sleeves, he picked carefully across the room to get close to it. It darted away from him the moment it sensed him, however. Another caught his eye farther ahead, so he followed it until it, too, flew away from him and the next led him on. And so on, until he reached yet another stairwell - this one filled with the glowing fire moths. By their light, he could make out the brassy glint of a gate at the very bottom.

Naturally, his curiosity had been piqued by now, and an ousia-powered console hummed nearby. Recently used, it seemed, if it were operational in an otherwise abandoned building. With the tap of a few buttons, the gate clattered open and Wriothesley descended this time far more cautiously, fists raised and at the ready.

The fire moths led him to a room aglow with candlelight at the end of a long corridor. From it came the scent of perfume, or perhaps simply that of life, and it was then that he had a decision to make: continue to sneak through the darkness as though he were a thief (which, technically, he was), or to show himself immediately. So he pressed himself up against the wall alongside the door and waited for the sound of footsteps.

@rozenflamme

[rozenflamme]

She had known of his presence long before he reached her. The flame moths, ever loyal, had found their way to her, swirling and spiralling near an extended hand to whisper of his approach: a man, his hair matted from the rain, the poor thing, but he’d been cautious enough to slow his pace upon finding his way into the ruined building’s lower floors, skulking about as though a thief. How amusing, she thought, that he would think himself unseen with just that.

For a moment, she considered leaving.

It would be easy enough. With a mere snap of her fingers, she could dissolve into flame, turn herself into a moth, and vanish into the storm outside. A tempting idea. After all, solitude had been her sole refuge ever since her return. She had yet to fully wrap her mind around how or why she had been pulled from ashes, and the uncertainty of it all still hung heavy in her mind. But ah, to flee now would be to deprive herself of the chance to at last speak with another living soul... And what a waste would it be, if she did not take advantage of this neatly wrapped gift prepared just for her.

No, she will not be leaving, she decided.

Let him come. Let him see what he has stumbled upon.

With a flick of her wrist, the room soon came alive. Candlelight flared, and those that once sat unlit along the long corridor kindled softly, one by one, like a red carpet rolling down for an esteemed guest. Golden heels clicked softly against the stone floor as she languidly made her way to the gramophone in the corner of the room. It was an old, weary thing, its brass body tarnished with age, riddled with scratches no double left behind by what small animals would find their way here. A miracle that it still worked, fingertips running along its edge before lifting the needle and setting it gently onto the record that had been with it since long before she had taken refuge here.

The musical tone’s first notes had been scratchy, distorted by time and neglect, but soon enough the room was filled with the melancholic strains of waltz; a tune that often filled Fontaine’s streets, granting the droll, decrepit ruins a modicum of life.

For some time, the fire moths and this aged melody were Rosalyne’s only companions in this place. And while she was not one to long for company—oh, how her pride would never allow it—the isolation was slowly wearing her thin. Hopefully, this man could offer her a moment’s entertainment, then. A much needed break from the monotony of her seclusion. And if fortune favoured her, he might even possess information worth her while—answers to the questions she had yet to fully form.

Content with the song and the now amply lit room, the Crimson Witch settled herself onto the chair right by it, one leg crossing over the other, chin resting on her knuckles. Half-lidded eyes drifted towards the walls where she knew he lingered, her tone light and teasing as flame moths continued to dance around her as though a crown.

“Shouldn’t it be about time you stop with this game of hide and seek, young man?”

Outside, rain only continued to fall—thunder rolling in the distance, growling lazily as it chased after the lightning’s fleeting brightness. The tone’s needle skipped a beat, the song it hummed stuttering for a moment before, after a moment’s pause, resuming its song, as if the machine itself were catching its breath from fright.

“Come. Sit down. I have no freshly brewed teas to offer, but it’s certainly warmer here than out there.”

[balemouns]

a moment awake.

an unexpected encounter at a banquet at hotel debord.

[balemouns]

the invitation wasn't for her, and if the doorman had pressed it --- she may very well not find herself inside the private event renting out hotel debord, a celebration for a wealthy man's work in concentrating more mora where he wanted it to go. instead, one of the children --- a veteran of the house of the hearth --- had managed her way into the larger circle of nearly-anonymous benefactors this nobleman valued, saw as useful.

the din of the party is far louder in the main hall of the hotel --- clinking glasses of champagne, the low roar of conversation intermingling with the occasional refined, controlled chuckle or snicker in reply to a humorous quip. she does not find herself there at this moment, having avoided the host's attention on purpose, as her face had grown increasingly well-known in court of fontaine.

instead, as she'd glided carefully across the main hall to one of the corridors, heels now slowly progress down past doors to countless rooms --- until arlecchino finds an auxiliary staircase, and ascends to the fourth floor, recalling the room number her child had recorded as the suite the esteemed mr. auguste had rented. with the house of the hearth's hands tied in taking matters into their own hands fontaine... perhaps, inside his suite, she'd find the evidence needed to expose the corruption her children suspected.

as arlecchino reaches the proper floor, a sight ahead of her gives her pause --- standing at the doorway in question is a familiar and blatantly recognizable figure, dressed differently. a ghost?... but what would her ghost have to do with this place, this man?... she calls out plainly --- informally, not believing what she's seeing. "... rosalyne?"

@rozenflamme.

[rozenflamme]

What started out of mere curiosity soon turned to Rosalyne keeping a close eye on Arlecchino from afar. A small game she’d come up with, just to see how long it would take her ever-so-careful-Knave to notice eyes were on her. Then came the whispers of the banquet, of secrets hidden within, and having long grown bored of her silly little waiting game, Rosalyne now stands before the Knave; a delicate scarlet red lace mask adorning the right half of her face, its long butterfly wings obscuring her eyes and scarred cheek, while leaving her smile fully visible, fond at first, before shifting into something more teasing.

At the sound of her name—the very name she thought would’ve been long forgotten now—Rosalyne’s smile only grows, head tilting ever so slightly as if amused by her dearest little Knave’s call.

“Rosalyne?” Both of their voices easily echo along the empty hallways despite the distant noise of the banquet, her voice light, almost mocking as she lets slip a chuckle. “My, my, what a cute name. Did you come up with that yourself?”

She knows her identity is near unmistakable by now. Especially when she hadn’t put much effort into her disguise to begin with. The lace mask she wears no longer resembles the jagged crown of her past, but it still covers that same marred cheek, the one that tells a tale she’s never fully shared to any but Pierro and Arlecchino. And though her dress is now predominantly red than white, really, who else could carry such a piece with such effortless magnificence but her?

“I suppose I must bear some resemblance to this… Rosalyne, hm? Whoever she is. A ghost, perhaps? A figment of your imagination? Wake up, now. This is no time to be idling about, hm?” When she next speaks, she steps back, purposely slow, as if inviting the Knave to follow her. She feels the suite’s cold doorknob with her fingertips, and with a quick move of her hand, it opens for her—for them. “Surely you have more pressing matters to attend to than a name, my darling Knave… like the secrets waiting behind this door?”

And with another step back, she’s welcomed herself within the suite, silhouette framed by the soft glow of the room’s interior.

[rozenflamme]

🎲 here's a dare to do smth set way back w focalors before furina ever existed

━ kiss roulette 25. A kiss that's an accident

Her tea has long grown cold by the time she finishes it—a gentle blend of roses and honey, sweet and fragrant—the stark contrast of the bitterness that has come to settle and remain in her heart for years. A shame, really. The tea didn’t come cheap, after all, and it was quite delectable while still warm. Still, there’s no reason for her to mourn over it for much longer, her heels clicking against the cobblestones as she rises from her seat. Throughout her teatime, Rosalyne’s grey eyes has never once left the figure of a girl wandering through the crowd as though a stray star; out of place, yet radiant in curiosity.

For a time, she merely follows at a distance, her steps unhurried despite the hustle and bustle of the small city, until eventually she finds herself standing beside the stranger before a newsstand. The girl holds a newspaper, her mismatched eyes scanning the pages with an intensity that borders near-reverence.

It wasn’t at all that difficult to pin-point, really. That she is an outlier, much like Rosalyne. Could it be that she’s come to the city, then, out of her interest in people? A smile curls upon red-painted lips as she observes the girl’s fascination before, without much preamble, she steps so she is now stood behind her, leaning forward just so that she could read the article she’s on over her shoulder.

“My, humans are quite resilient things, aren’t they?” The girl looks up, startled at her voice, her wide eyes meeting Rosalyne’s. Rosalyne, in turn, only smiles all the more. “The world, its monsters, and all its absent gods have left them with so much trouble, so much destruction and heartache and yet they preserve still. They rebuild broken cities, rewrite forgotten stories, and cling to hope as though it’s the only thing keeping them afloat. Admirable, yet pitiful all the same.”

The stranger, for a moment, didn’t seem sure whether to respond or retreat. But that she doesn’t move away and have even recollected herself now by greeting Rosalyne’s easy smile with one of her own certainly is something worth praising. “But that’s what makes them beautiful, don’t you think?” Seeing as she doesn’t seem to have the voice to answer, Rosalyne opts to continue instead. “Their fragility, paired with a determination that keeps the going despite everything. As if they find meaning in the struggle itself. Adorable, truly.”

She hums, still leaning over her shoulder in such close proximity as the stranger changes the newspaper’s page to the next. Her lips had parted as if to speak, once, yet she purses them into a thin line once more before her voice could be heard. A shame. No matter, a one-sided conversation has become quite the norm for the Fair Lady.

“What of you, then? Do you find meaning in their struggles, or do you simply observe from the sidelines, like me?”

At that, the girl hesitates. It’s feint, but Rosalyne catches the way her fingers tighten around the edges of the newspaper nonetheless. She is just about to interpret the continued quiet as confirmation—that this stranger, too, is an observer, a wanderer on the fringes of belonging—when she finally speaks, her voice soft but steady. Certain, yet not.

“I believe I’m still hoping to figure that out.”

With a huff of a sigh, Rosalyne chuckles softly. What an intriguing woman. “Aren’t we all? The world has a way of leaving everyone searching, human or not. It’s almost as if the act of searching itself is the only constant our gods are willing to give to us.”

The next look the girl gives her is odd: with a small turn of her head, the girl readily meets her eyes again, and Rosalyne is left puzzled at the complexity of her gaze. Her eyes are wide, as if startled, as though Rosalyne’s words have caught her off guard somehow, yet there’s a stillness in them, too. A quiet composure that tells tale that she’s holding herself together by sheer will alone. A look that’s hard to read indeed, layered with emotions Rosalyne can’t begin to comprehend—both because she’s long lost hers, and because it seems to be a concoction of surprise, curiosity, and perhaps, even a hint of vulnerability.

When she is given no other word, but another turn of page instead, Rosalyne moves to step back and finally give the strange her peace but then, as if the gods themselves have decided to make a tease out of them, a passerby bumps into Rosalyne from behind—

—her balance falters, and though she manages to steady herself against the newsstand, the momentum carries her forward just enough for her lips to brush against the tip of the girl’s ear—a fleeting, accidental kiss that lasts no more than a heartbeat.

It’s a trivial thing, really. But then Rosalyne notices the way the tip of the girl’s ears redden, and suddenly she can’t help the laugh that escapes her. How amusing. She had thought her puzzling just a moment ago, yet deep down it seems this one’s just as innocent and purehearted as any human.

“Well,” Rosalyne says, fixing the poor girl’s tilted hat, her voice warm with mirth as she straightens up, “it seems the world has a sense of humour after all.”

And with that, she turns and walks away, leaving the peculiar stranger there.

[rozenflamme]

🎲 i just think it would be funni

━ kiss roulette 28. A kiss in parting

Monstadt’s ever-so-popular Windblume Festival is in full swing outside, laughter and music filling its decorated streets and the faint scent of blooming flowers dancing with the wind. Yet, the atmosphere is remarkably different here inside Angel’s Share: quiet save for the tune playing on the gramophone, paired occasionally with a clink of glass and the low murmur of a few patrons scattered about.

Rosalyne sits at the bar, gloved finger tracing the rim of her near-empty glass, silver gaze fixed on the man behind the counter.

And goodness, what a sight for sore eyes he is, hm? His white vest pristine clean and well ironed, his black tie perfectly knotted, and his crimson hair tied in a ponytail, though still wild and untamed. Still, it’s his expression, however, that has caught her attention most—sharp, piercing eyes unabashedly meeting hers, his brows furrowed and his lips openly showing his displeased frown, as if her very presence is an affront to his establishment. She can’t help but find it amusing. No, more than that—it’s endearing, in a way that makes her chest ache with a bittersweet nostalgia.

How he reminds her so much of her wolf pup. The memory of him is like a curse she can never let go. Though centuries may have passed since, she can still clearly recall his ridiculous rigidness. Always so serious, so dedicated to his duties, though beneath it all had been a heart that burned with such intense love for Mondstadt and its people. Ah, yes… He would have loved today, she thinks. He would have wandered Mondstadt’s mountains collecting Cecilias to present to her with that rare, soft smile of his…

But Rostam is now gone. And there will be no knight of hers who shall come with a hand full of clumsily picked flowers for them to weave together into crowns. There’s only—well, Diluc, and that glare of his as though she’s some kind of a nuisance.

She can’t help but laugh slowly under her breath. How amusing, how adorable, that this young little pup thinks he can intimidate her. She’s no stranger to these sorts of hostility, and his attempts to make her feel unwelcome only serve to entertain her further. In fact, hoping to taunt him further, she raises her glass and, much to his chagrin, gestures for a refill.

The way his jaw seems to tighten as he pours her another glass of dandelion wine, that momentary hesitation and she swears she heard him grunt just then—oh, it’s all just too much. She can see how he clearly despises serving her, yet he can’t outright refuse. After all, it is an important day for Mondstadt, a day for happiness and freedom and love and wouldn’t it be cruel of him to suddenly kick out a diplomat when she has done nothing wrong? She chuckles. It doesn’t matter that her blood is as Mondstadtian as his; to him, it seems, she’s nothing but an outsider, a threat. And perhaps she is. But that only makes this game all the more enjoyable.

As she sips on her wipe, she can’t help but notice how the few patrons who remain keep on stealing glances her way, careful and wary of her. Ah, his own little guards, maybe? How thoughtful. She almost wants to give them a reason to act, just to see what he would do. But she isn’t here to cause trouble, no. Not today, at the very least. Today, she’s here to remember, to indulge in the bittersweet ache of memories that she hopes will continue to haunt her, that she may never forget.

Dandelion Wine has always tasted sweet on her tongue, but the aftertaste is bitter.

She doesn’t ask for a third. The ache in her chest only grows heavier by the second, and she knows better than to drown it in alcohol. So while she would love to continue this silly little game she’s made for herself, she rises from her seat, smoothing out the folds of her dress before gesturing for her bill.

When Diluc slides the slip of paper toward her, she can’t help but laugh—a full, unrestrained sound that echoes in the quiet tavern. It even makes a few patron jump in their seat, surprise and confusion painted across their features.

Double the usual price, is it? Oh, this boy is too much. She doesn’t complain and reaches for her purse, her laughter still bubbling in her throat, and sets a handsome amount of mora on the counter. Before he can reach to take the money, her hand reaches out, grabbing him by his tie and yanking him forward.

She watches as his eyes widen in surprise—hears the sound of seats scraping against wooden floor as some of his men quickly stand in concern—but she gives them all no time to react. With but a small tilt of her head, she presses a quick, chaste kiss to his lips, her laughter still dancing in her eye as she pulls away.

“Something for me to take on the road,” is all she says, her voice light and teasing. “Ah, and keep the change. Think of it as a tip.” With that, she turns to leave, hand raising in a half-hearted, languid wave, uncaring of any protests he may have.

Hah. Even his angered face, flushed and scowling, looks so much like her Rostam’s.

[prettythought]

kiss roulette

inspired by the infamous "i want the k" meme by deactivated tumblr user tastcful. send 🎲 to generate a kiss! potential suggestive/nsf.w themes may appear

A kiss on the cheek

A kiss on the nose

A kiss on the forehead

A kiss to the top of the head

A firm kiss

A gentle peck

A romantic kiss

A platonic kiss

A kiss to the eyelid

A kiss along the jawline

A kiss to the neck

A kiss along the collar bone

A kiss on the chest

A kiss to the stomach

A kiss along the hips

A kiss in the rain

An upside-down "Spider-Man" kiss

A kiss while laughing

A kiss underwater

A rough kiss

WILDCARD! Dealer's choice :)

A french kiss/kiss with tongue

A kiss influenced by alcohol/other substances

A sleepy kiss

A kiss that's an accident

A kiss while one or both parties are crying

A kiss in greeting

A kiss in parting

A kiss to the back of the hand

A kiss to the palm of the hand

A kiss to the inner thigh

A kiss while someone watches

A kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking

A kiss after a bite

A kiss against a wall

A kiss to the shoulder

A kiss to the back of the neck

A kiss while one party is carried

A tentative kiss

An impulsive kiss

A kiss out of spite

A clumsy kiss

A bloody kiss

[rozenflamme]

holy shit dude how much mora did you pick up to get an extra life like that

Mora? Haha, I've spent none of that, no.

I simply pressed Alt + F4 before the cutscene reached that point, so I never died.

[rozenflamme]

⠀ ⠀  ݁ ˖ ;༊ Plotting Call

Hi, hi! While I am still finishing up my list of headcanons for Signora and her return, consider this a plotting call for yours truly!

By liking this, I'll know that I can slide into your discord DMs or tumblr IMs for potential plotting and/or threads. 

Below is also a commission board request I have, though it's really only one and erm good luck having a fun time! Though it's under Sea of Quanta, Teyvat muses are still free to jump in and take them as long as they're okay with being unable to claim the rewards for it! I, myself, don't mind.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ─────── · · ───────

              Harmony Commission Requests

Clockie Studios Theme Park has set up a new attraction for the season: a Tunnel of Love that takes images from the riders' dreams in order to create a unique and magical experience. You decide to test the hype and go on the ride yourself. Maybe you've even brought along a friend? Don't get too excited, though: Turns out, the ride's broken. When your boat bobs into the dark tunnel, and the visions begin to emerge, you soon realize that the ride isn't emulating your dreams: it's pulling from your nightmares. And now you have to sit through the whole ride—or fight your way out of the haze. (TAKEN BY SENTI)

[rozenflamme]

Crimson Witch

To ashes she fell, and from ashes she shall rise again.

She wakes to pain. One that melts her skin and eats at her bones and her hoarse scream is the only thing that pierces through the night. The flames that consume and make her are both her curse and her salvation—a reminder of what she has lost and what she has become, a reminder of what she has yet done.

Liquid fire trickles down from her eyes. Not from the pain, but from the wretched sorrow that fills her when she realizes that ah, she has been taken away from her beloved once more, robbed of the right to die, of the right to reunite.

How can she ever be content when time and again, the only thing that matters to her is snatched away? How can she find peace when every flicker of hope is extinguished before she can even see it in full? No, contentment is a distant dream, a luxury she forfeited the moment she embraced the flames. This, Rosalyne knows: she shall never know of contentment again—not since the day she sacrificed herself, her heart, her very essence, in pursuit of a hollow vengeance.

Contentment is for the naive fools who have not seen their world crumble, for those fortunate enough to have never felt the weight of their own choices devour them from within.

She is not one of them.

She is fire and fury, pain and purpose, a living testament to the cost of vengeance.

And so, she will burn—until the world is cleansed, until her enemies are ash, or until the flames finally consume her entirely.

Oh, Rostam. My darling Rostam. Watch over me, my love, as I burn away everything that stole you from me—every monster, every injustice, every silent bystander who stood idle as you were taken.

Contentment is not hers to claim, and perhaps it never will be.

The flames that consume and make her are her curse and salvation. At last, her screams die down, its echoes swallowed by the stillness of the night, as the undying blaze that once enwrapped her settles into smouldering embers. The fire does not extinguish, oh, it never does, it merely settles, flickering to life whenever fury rises.

True strength, she knows, is not measured by the absence of pain and sorrow but by the ability to endure it. And by the gods, has she endured. She is strong because she has borne the unbearable, because she has taken the searing agony of loss and moulded it into a weapon, a purpose, an obsession that shall never be extinguished.

To ashes she fell, and from ashes she shall rise again.

Once more, crimson flames have reshaped her, their cruel embrace etching red paths along her skin. Her reflection on the water shows an ugly, jagged scar that mars her face. A permanent reminder of the future she was forewoven. She watches not in sorrow, but in resignation—no—in acceptance. This is the life she shall live. The burden she shall bear. The destiny she shall embrace, for how else will she spell away the vile anger and hatred in her heart, if not by burning away all the demons in the world?

Thus, for the second time, she becomes the witch that historians shall be loath to remember, leaving scorched earth in her wake as she walks the path of hellfire.