† lawful.

 "find yourself before someone else does. in concealing your own achilles' heel, you will make miles even on an open wound." ( afflilated trainer         class marquis. )

[sabazion-blog]

Even the dragon once was a prince in another lifetime

Theeeeee Valentine children as requested by selphv! They’re the trainer classes Lady and Marquis. Erich Areleous was Cain Valentine up until he renounced his privilege in the family and adopted a new identity. 

[sabazion-blog]

shifting sands of fortune; Erich&Violet

[hiredhuntress]

“How are you enjoying the evening, Miss Norgard?”

Keeping her steely gaze on the twinkling night sky, Violet merely humored the smooth voice’s question of feigned interest with an irritated grunt. The spoiled elite of Lumiose already had the Gang Member on her last nerve, and with every drunken giggle from the extravagant company at the Areleous Manor, her foul mood only worsened.

 “Krooow!”

Honchkrow lighted on Violet’s muscular forearm with an affirmative call to the stars, his Trainer nodding at the encoded relay of information. Target spotted.

 “I take it you have no complaints about operating in such an environment?”

The Gang Member’s eye twitched with annoyance as she finally turned to face her client with no answer to give him, the supposed “golden boy” of the Lumiose police force. How would the public react if Erich Areleous was ever caught associating with the supposed dregs of urban society, as he was now? Violet allowed herself a small smile at the sinister thought. Everyone that grabbed power in Lumiose was a little corrupt, for they all ascended to their seats of high authority by manipulating other people inside the Kalosian crown jewel. Erich was no different in his practices, but Violet didn’t mind.

Keep reading

[sabazion-blog]

Violet’s fault-finding prelude is not met with particular surprise. The marquess crosses his arms, remaining circumspect, playing his part in her mocking swagger without so much as a word to keep her from censoring her opinions. Women, with exception to his former spouse, tend to expect more latitude when going about their ranges of expertise. Fortunately, this would be but a minor expense out of his pockets.

Such is the payoff of contracting a talent like the Nighthawk; the enduring of her particularly sharp tongue. The huntress is as unprincipled as they come and unfailingly eager to familiarize herself with every button that pushes his patience. In many instances, she stands successful in that regard, but tolerating her antics seems mere trivia when aversion for the corrupt aristocracy is already in his blood. The political stance remains private: the fact of the matter is, his actions currently paint him in all and every shade of hypocrisy. In the current state of affairs, he sees little gain in clarifying his motives, or correcting whatever mistaken impressions she has come to attribute to him.

What is her mockery? What, in comparison to the sheer girth of some of the things the nobility are capable of, can it amount to other than the occasional thorn in his side?

“Say, when I’m done with your man, maybe you could hire me to knock off those girls by the entrance gate…”

As she joins him at the balustrade overlooking the garden, Erich turns his attention to her pointed line of sight. He then regards the source of her indignities with rare commiserating interest as his eyes settle on the daughters of the Consulate General of Kalos. Jackpot, as it were --- if the huntress were looking to get off the wrong foot with the most bloodthirsty among all the women in attendance, that is. She seems either dogged by misfortune, or particularly eye-catching, or exceptionally talented at picking bones with the gentry. He can’t quite deny that this does, in fact, earn her a few points in his favor, however impossible he could have previously thought it. 

The favors are quickly lost when Erich is promptly met with Violet’s languid form sidling up against him. The fake intimacy nearly causes the marquess to outwardly cringe, but he exhales through his nose, suffering her tongue-in-cheek advances with heroic tolerance. He will not give her the pleasure of seeing him disconcerted. Neither her, nor his former wife - the latter being his personal consultant and the one who has taken it upon herself to, in her own words, ‘supervise Miss Norgard’s workplace integrity.’ He has yet to decipher the meaning behind those words.

“See to it that Miss Norgard does not go off the books,” he instructs into the lapel microphone hooked underneath his collar, eyeing the hired huntress as she saunters away.

‘What’s the matter?’ Transmits the voice of his ex-wife from the opposite end of the line. Her tone is laced with clever amusement. ‘She’s the least of your concerns. Her confidence will hold. Worry about the impression you’ll make with the guests. You will surely know when she has gotten her hands on Aldaya. Everyone in the gala will.’

“You seem awfully sure.”

‘With good reason. Remember who hand-picked Violet Norgard from the market for you. You put full credence in my judgment. don’t you? Or, are you just trying to shed some light on how she bat her eyes at Erich Areleous?’ His name is punctuated teasingly. ‘How unlike you.’

Erich merely smiles an inaudible smile.

---------

As it turns out, there is scathing truth to Helena’s prophesy. When Violet Norgard succeeds, the profane actions of the Father Velázquez may as well have been blazoned all across the Areleous garden for the entire nation to see via satellite image technology. The marquess is almost insulted to learn of the wretch’s unmitigated nerve in attempting to proposition the huntress. Miscreant or not, the Nighthawk is, at present, considered of indispensable function in his wing. Erich quells the commotion with practiced proficiency, but even his impressive diplomacy falls quite short of hushing the malicious scandal which disrupts the flow of the evening.

By Monday, he promises his guests, who look to him with much less compromise than the layperson, Velázquez will be transferred from his holding cell to my courtroom to undergo preliminary hearing. Needless to say, crimes against women are not to be tolerated, much less in the Areleous Manor. ‘Father Velázquez’ has been taken into police custody. I beseech you all to put this misfortune behind you, and to carry on enjoying your evening here, my friends. 

For the least of public image, Erich participates in the charade of ensuring the mental recovery of Aldaya’s ‘victim’. Trading places with Helena, they loan a duo of maids to the huntress, who see her to the private baths with fresh gowns and bath oils at hand. By the time the indulgent treatment ends for Violet, he has long since lost interest with the gala occurring beyond his moderate, surprisingly low-key office. An earpiece feeds the recording acquired by her, and the notebook pages before him sit covered with meticulous fountain pen writing. 

“I know, I just think you’re a fucking pig, so I’m going off the record a bit,”  the tape pronounces in Violet’s voice, before cutting off from thereon afterwards. Her presence does not detract his attention from the work splayed out before him, but a hand frees itself in order to slide a thick envelope towards the center of his desk.

“Your payment, Miss Norgard. You may want to pocket it before it grows the good sense to attempt to flee from you, just like Aldaya had unsuccessfully done. What is contained in there should more than compensate for the troubles you have gone through tonight.” The rustle of paper as he straightens his work space out and removes his earpiece. “I had not foreseen Aldaya attempting to solicit you. That was my shortcoming.”

[sabazion-blog]

shifting sands of fortune; Erich&Violet

( hiredhuntress )

The villa estate is spangled with the glaring essence of prestige. Decorated soldiers and corporate giants stroll the winding cobblestone pathway, marveling over the magnificent garden landscape with politic interest. Proud benefactors and pet wives perch upon their elbows like Unfezant, groomed to the last word of high fashion and repute, tittering behind gifts of honeyed words as they amble the Areleous Manor looking to pollinate greater supremacy among their own. 

The day progresses in tandem with the lax agenda for champagne distribution. Tongues loosen to the pleasant serenade of fine wine like night-blooming glory flowers. By dusk, it becomes nearly impossible to tell the guests of honor apart from the string lights festooned throughout the magnificent garden. The vault of the sky dons a brilliant shade, tempering into a canvas the color of gold gilding. The atmospheric festivity, quietly imposing, is further entertained by a great troop of eloquent Illumise flocking and surging precisely in the formation of fireworks. The assembly has every right to rejoice in the formal occasion,

-- granted, they are not the target designated to never leave the estate following the reception.

As the bedazzled eyes of the crowd turn away, a broad-winged silhouette cuts across the brilliant evening sky in a daunting arc. Breaks the ranks of the loitering night bugs and sends them scattering for shelter, snuffing out half the brilliance of the night. The call of a Honchcrow resounds throughout the night, echoes concealing the whereabouts of its dour mischief. A cry which mocks the name of a condemned target.

"How are you enjoying the evening, Miss Norgard?”

The inquiry contains token interest for the woman’s state of entertainment. It isn’t difficult for one to discern the pragmatic nuance in his voice. His gaze is keen, nonetheless. He turns his back to the balustrade of the widow’s walk and faces his private guest, watching her Honchcrow alight upon her forearm. Dark blue feathers toss and settle about their feet.

“I take it you have no complaints about operating in such an environment? The devout are a conservative crowd, but the settings are opportune if you are to locate someone as frivolous as the subject in question,

“Father Velázquez. Subject him to enough predicament, and he will surely come out as ‘Don Aldaya’. An even more ornate name for a double-crossing agent who sells secrets, all of them acquired through the confessional, across the border. Allegedly,” he adds. “But extracting information is also your department, is it not? I’ll leave it to you to make sure he reveals information that incriminates himself.”

[earthenpyre-archives-blog]

Visit Original Link

[sabazion-blog]

└▶ Pompeii || Bastille

But if you close your eyes, Does it almost feel like Nothing changed at all?

[kvlosfire]

metric; Erich & Selphy

[kvlosfire]

The World — and she thinks of the treasured memories like a vivid hallucination. It holds the revelation that he had still thought fondly of her resulted in feelings similar to intoxication, and leaves Selphy’s head reeling giddy with the riddled happiness despite of the following words. He says something that she barely catches — would have meant more — and thoughts are marred briefly with bitter mention of a familiar identity now suggested to be naught. He loses her this time, causing her understanding of the man before her to waver (yet, again), and sends another ripple of despair through her phantasmagoria. 

Keep reading

[sabazion-blog]

The marquis can nearly pick up on the gears shifting beneath her voluminous locks of hair. To their - her - family and its register of servants, Selphy had always been gifted of a certain eloquence that desired no words. A privilege of the wealthy, albeit she remained appeased all the same, and adoration for her lasted throughout the household, becoming even the envy of its carefully-buffed balustrade. To compare Selphy to the parents’ pretentiously-loved staircases is a preposterous thing to do - but at the very least, he could grant himself the benefit of knowing she was well deferred-to, even after his death. 

She budges into blunt line of sight, eyes bitten, surprising him with her wonted insistence. Uncertainty double-crosses Erich. The composure, which he had so industriously drilled since the loss of Cain Valentine, breaks rank from the rest of his cogent, lukewarm demeanor. The mar between his brows denounces him to her will, alas, the fault of his brotherly love. To his ears, her silence is a plaintive cry for mercy, bargaining to hold an old letter to a candle flame. If he complies as she so desires, he will simply sear the empty promise to naught but ashes.

She is in mourning. 

Erich, himself, feels apprehensive about her touch, the dainty fingers manicured of a different patois. Touch her, and her affinity will spread like wildfire and send him up in smoke, deserting all but the shadow of his former self. Selphy’s eyes glimmer with the luster of dawn stones, the marking of a watershed in their relationship at last. He fears what she sees.

He lifts his hand. Strong static dispatches upon contact, in spite of the cotton layer of his glove, the only force of inertia remaining between them. Knuckles sweeping a fluent line from the heart of her palm to her fingers, he ushers her hand to his lips for a gentle, pragmatic kiss.

“Cain Valentine is no more, Lady.” He speaks with a certain condolence, an impenetrable mask sheltering a gaping lack of confidence in her presence. “But, if you have not already tired of this person who has taken his place, then I hope you will come away with me. At the very least, I would like for you to reach closure... if not understanding,” he adds hopefully.

[kvlosfire]

metric; Erich & Selphy

[kvlosfire]

Cold, is the word that comes to mind for the sensation that runs through her veins and to her fingertips. It’s a kind of sadness that wrecks from the inside and pulls her memories shred by shred as though mocking them — was this image of Cain, no, of Erich, really not something you romanticised for yourself? Who could love you? A tool; born of need more than want.  Yet, his comment makes her look toward him with a betrayal of hope dancing across her delicate features when she realizes that (you have grown,) means her brother did recall her from the albeit distant, past. An inkling of hope – the light speck at the end of a dark tunnel she had been running through blindly her whole life and his words had already become saving grace. But what was this? The latter part (I find myself not nearly recognising you) takes the young Lady for a joyride before a rude crash-landing; who was she to think she was anything to him? 

Read More

[sabazion-blog]

As one who shepherded the attachment between them, he should have prepared himself to cater until the inevitable would have done brother and sister part. His past endearment proves today’s price. Had he not stood up against his mother’s principles, through actions, never explicitly, he would have been able to avoid encouraging the fabrication of Selphy’s illusions, only to evict them in all due time. He meant neither for this happenstance encounter to intervene, nor for the demise of her fool’s paradise. But it comes clear now that it was a misery he had sentenced her to from a very early age. 

And he is sorry for it. 

Anticipating warm reception was begging the question. Once, in some extrasolar past, he would shoulder trifling blames in her place; plate the greens she refused to eat so she would have room left for churned ice-cream. Played with her in his study from where he, at the end of the day, would relocate her sleeping form back to her bedroom well before the servants came looking. Those were the respectable memories of Cain Valentine he intended her to remember. A young man he himself drowned in the waters of Lethe. 

The man who replaced him had turned instead to prosecution, a glorious stance of hypocrisy paved by good intentions. He had either exalted himself, or taken a drastic plunge at a single strike of lightning. If only he had never feigned the faultless young master: they had never been close to the point of being inseparable, Cain and Selphy, but his concessions bred commiseration that more than justified his endearment of her.  

Hearing his former name stirs a surreal commotion within. Cain Valentine is a fictitious entity, nothing but a concept delineating the kind of man a shadow had once been. 

Needless to say, he is unprepared for her no-nonsense interrogation. Rusty at forthrightness outside of the courthouse, so to speak. Unable to return the sincerity of her gaze, he turns his head and instead picks a favorable spot to direct his brimming indignation. She does not need to suffer more than she already has. 

“... The world,” he bites. A sincere, albeit reluctant, answer. “That is what it means. But it would have meant more to Cain Valentine -- and that man is past.”

[kvlosfire]

metric; Erich & Selphy

[kvlosfire]

Steps stop short and she feels her heart race for the wrong reasons. Selphy had been elated to have had the chance to visit Lumiose after a long, harrowing worry that the trip would be cancelled thanks to the inflated crime rates recently; but no — something else catches her attention this time apart from the bright lights, the skyscrapers. The taste of a shared dream—

        What is in a name? That which we call a rose—

Read More

[sabazion-blog]

He regards her with stony diplomacy. Stands witness as a crackle of distress zaps her dainty features with the deftness of a torpedo: his words sail a clean, aesthetic arc, devastating every faultless quality of hers in a matter of mere seconds. Was this particle of glee felt for the agitated reaction -- a self-righteous appreciation that he still had her favors? After all, he had departed the Valentine lineage without as much as a glance over his shoulder at the lonely, priceless little flower that had kept him rooted until his tolerance saw its final days. 

                       -- Regardless, she would not have been able to keep him rooted for long. 

As a boy, he had totaled the costs of remaining a Valentine, and of discarding the privilege granted him upon birth. He is just that scrupulous of a character, calculating for utter control to the point of ruthlessness. This nature of exacting his goals was another inheritance from their mother, perhaps an extreme. But where he had headed was no place for Selphy to be -- where he currently is, to be precise. He has no choice but to welcome her as he would a foreign diplomat. Between a man following his convictions, and one who should act as the older brother she deserves -- was meant to have in the first place -- he knows which choice has his loyalty. This fateful encounter will not change things for the better. 

“How should I address you?”

So she knows. The servants must still talk, just as their parents once had. Whispers of, what a demon child that boy must be to toss away even the little sister whom he-- 

“Erich Areleous is the name,” he returns in a businesslike tone. Leaves her to taste the bitterness of detachment on the tip of her tongue. “-- but ‘Erich’ will do.” A concession. He is a monster towards her: something hard not to regret. Her sorrow has always been his weakness: if he allows her tears, the sight will plague him for days.

“You have grown. I find myself nearly not recognizing you.” LIAR.

[askboxmemes]

Drabble Prompts: In Love and War

[sabazion-blog]

1) My muse finds an old journal they kept in their teens (or equivalent). After reading the entire thing, they fall asleep and dream of people they once knew, both friends and enemies.

2) My muse is given a chance to go back in time and re-do one single event.

3) Every day for weeks, someone has been sneaking into my muse’s home or office and leaving a note which reads “Why did you do it?” I will write a drabble about what my muse assumes the note is about.

4) Send me a character and the word “love” or “war.” For love, I will write a romantic scene between that character and my muse. For war, I will write an argument between that character and my muse.

5) Your muse and mine meet on a battlefield.

6) My muse is in love with yours, but your muse loves another. (Feel free to also send the name of the character your muse loves.)

7) My muse has survived a great battle, but someone they love has not.

8) My muse either finds, or loses, their faith in a higher power. (Specify which.)

9) Your muse is hurt or grieving. (Specify which.) My muse will assist or comfort them.

10) A drabble about my muse’s first love.

11) A drabble about my muse’s worst enemy.

12) My muse’s first contact with a representative of another culture (or species, in an SF/F setting).

[kvlosfire]

metric; Erich & Selphy

It is a collected step that carries her exit from the front door of Resort Gorgeous — her mother’s castle, as people have come to know it as. Gaudy, spacious, and intricately pretentious. Pristine, yet gawk-worthy to an even larger extent. She knew that the matronly Lady Valentine knew of its blaring opulence as well, and yet, she thrived on that sort of attention—

People said being rich was both a blessing and a curse. 

And while it was sufferable to be waited on hand and foot sometimes, Selphy reckons that the helicopter that waited on her front lawn was more so the former in such an instance. The availability to have her every whim gratified was.. endearing, and yet somehow, empty— she thinks, as a hand tousles the locks of brunette that are tossed by the whirring blades, reaching gently after for the sunglasses that had sat upon the bridge of her nose. For a brief moment she feels the eyes of her father upon her as she approaches the flight and wonders if he was struck by the similarities of his wife and his daughter – the way they were both always decked in lavish, filthy-perfect quality; 

I am nothing like her,            she muses semi-bitterly as the butler escorts her,  only a shadow; Selphy Valentine the Second.

Perhaps this was the reason she had often found herself whisked away on her own little adventure – an escape from the expectations of living the rich aristocratic life. It was always Selphy be a lady / Selphy do this / Selphy do that— It was hardly ever Selphy, be yourself. 

She sighs, but when he feet touches unfamiliar ground, she swears she’s a l i v e —

[sabazion-blog]

So it seemed forsaking the Valentine name had only done so much as yielding a burden upon the next generation. The stringency of Lady Valentine the Elder is a stigma that continues to haunt him, who, despite being her blood and flesh and the prototypical specimen for her aristocratic pipe dreams, wants the least in the world in common. And does not, in fact, have anything besides a history blotted out by expensive ink, to do with her. Even the high-born come in various shades of shameful. Even he is willing to concede to sharing in that spectrum: but for what he is and who he intends to be, Erich has scrubbed his disposition down with sand paper in order to shed himself of the wretched, indulgent habits lovingly injected into his veins by the woman who used to be his mother. 

No, she was not such an abomination, and the father he had left was simply a matter of little love lost. His resentment is simply a product of the aristocratic taste for discrimination he was taught to employ delightfully like the wieldy tip of his cutlass. He’s made of the gifts from his parents, so to speak.

But he never let the bad blood stain the young girl who was five years his junior. Of course, even in light of the misgivings he has for that idea of her - Valentine the Junior - he had long lost his chance to speak up on such a horrid decision. But it doesn’t mean the young lady had not once been a cooing bundle in his arms that had once made him an elated brother. To his chagrin, even after nine years he can still recognize her on sight: much owed to the... progenitors they share, of course. 

To think that he would happen across in an awfully quotidian, many-starred establishment in Lumiose. Fate, as her mother’s flair for dramatics would call it. 

“Lady Selphy.” He doesn’t address her with her surname as is normally appropriate: it may not be the case for her, but the name associated with him is already libel. “Pleasure to run into you here. Can you still recall who I am?”

[sabazion-blog]

pompeii; [au]

( acryhue )

Like acid filtering through dermis and bone, eroding its way to the heart of his vitality: ‘corrosion’ is the only word suited for calling a spade a spade, a star-crossed man damned. Until this day, he was an irrepressible character. He saw justice served and enemies felled regardless of cost; saw to the fulfillment of desired ends even if it meant defying his own authority to appeal to the popular ideals of the civilians. This was his conviction as an executive of the law. To look past the nuance for express victory was beyond him, for when he wanted something, he always sought to exact it. It was a glorious kingdom erected from black ice.

Multiple times over have his adversaries cursed his name, but all was well - he let them sing their ill will from behind iron bars, and it was never his family name they cursed. In the name of the so-called laws that regulate this nation, a law-abiding man can be as wicked as he. To punish the oppressors of humanity is clemency; to forgive them is cruelty. A matter as inconsequential as the fulfillment of his job description - that was all.

Erich Areleous: a beloved, ambitious man in the social sphere; initiate of a new lineage; chief magistrate; and exemplary demonstrator of what it means to be a model civilian. Someone who once had the wealth of a million prospects at his disposal, who has now been reduced to a single, conclusive verdict: death. From a million to one he descends, a dead man striding the corridors of a hospital, one which acts as procedural as his conviction for practicing justice. It is within this setting that he feels among his own kind: men and women who allot mercy killings of mind, and eventually of the body. Wretched -- but it is only as their callings dictate. To them, the ‘individual’, the human, is a mere transient concept, who is granted as much freedom as they deserve until his schedule draws to a close.

And he is no exception. 

“Are you the prodigy painter by the Gryhart name?” He asks out of mere formality: he knows very well who she is. A courtesy to a woman whose hospital room is more bleak than any empty canvas that has ever been placed before her, no doubt. He wastes no time to introduce.

“I am Erich Areleous. I have a business proposition. Will you listen, Miss Gryhart?”

[coral]

A child can teach an adult three things: to be happy for no reason, to always be busy with something, and to know how to demand with all his might that which he desires.

Paulo Coelho (via feellng)

[operationmeteor]

By ゆうちゃ（プロフ参照）