𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑.

𝐈𝐍𝐃. 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕. & 𝐒𝐄𝐋. 𝐌𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄. 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓. muses from 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐘, 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐆𝐄, 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐂𝐑𝐘, and more. as studied by mika. est. 06 / 2020.

[sicsemper]

pinned post.

penned by mika ( he/him, 30+, mst/mdt ) ... independent, multi-muse, canon & original characters. mostly a little insane but like, in a good way.

rules.  we all know how to act right. don’t expect anything else here. that includes: fiction =/= reality, and if you disagree with that statement, turn around post haste! thank you. don't want any nonsense or drama. i'm an old man who's tired of it. in essence: don’t be a twat.

i'm back. in a very limited capacity.

+ more below.

i wanted to make a general sort of note about dragon age: alright, so a flowering resurgence in my total obsession with dragon age is one of the things that's brought me back here. it never really left, but it had no outlet so i let it be, but i've been replaying da:i for the 48569789th time and here i am.

to be clear: i have not played veilguard yet. i plan to, but i have been warned that i'll be disappointed, so it's not really on the top of my list. i'd rather replay inquisition and be a happy camper.

simple as that ! and in other news —

[sicsemper]

‘ here, let me help you. ’

The train into Sector 7 had been scarce — and he couldn't have been gladder for it. Beaten and bruised, Zack had made it into the city somewhat easier after the battle of grandeur outside of Midgar's walls. He wasn't completely awful at sneaking... when necessary. What was worse was his initial thought hadn't been to go into Sector 7 at all; two numbers lower and a chapel roof higher had been more key on the agenda. But sneaking didn't leave room for caring much about his wants vs. his needs.

Cloud's needs.

Security still wandered and from what he'd seen of them poking their heads around, their journey in had gone relatively unnoticed, but their arrival outside the gates naturally had not. And over the past three days he still couldn't get the memory of pressing himself and Cloud against the wall of a cargo car, heart rate high and beating like a drum against his chest as said security peeked in through the door. They were barely hidden by two boxes — of what, he didn't know, wasn't breathing at the time — but the seconds that ticked by stretched into hours as sweat gathered at his temples.

They'd made it — off the train earlier than he'd anticipated, body relishing the thought of breaking as he dragged the other man along with him like a bag full of bricks thrown over his shoulders. He'd do it again in a heartbeat, he knew, but damn. With the moon high, the train platform seemed as good a place as any to rest.

And then Tifa had found them.

Three days later, Cloud's still recovering — slowly — and Zack's hissing as he tries to re-bandage his own right hand, left hand apparently useless, both stinging like a bitch. — "Here, let me help you."

Dark lashes flutter, falling shut as his nose scrunches, face twisting; she'd done more than enough, and the guilt of being just adjacent to useless was beginning to take its own toll — another moment in time seared into his memory and resurfacing to extraordinary heights at the sheer coincidence of ever seeing her face again at all. His shoulders hung lower lately; and as he pushes a sigh out through his nose, face relaxing, his lips lilt in a smile that's the furthest thing from happy, and falls just as quickly. Still, he swings on his heel to step toward her, offering his hand out ever so slightly. The bandages were getting less bloody, at least. He was bound to have some wicked scarring after this — unless he was lucky enough that his gloves might've saved him from the worst of it. Maybe. Blue gaze cast low, he hums. She should hate him. If she remembers him at all. "You might be surprised to know you've already done that more than plenty."

[cybrvce]

You. Nero doesn't know many people who'd call him a tiger - he's gotten loads of other comparisons: vicious like viper, ready to throw down like a kangaroo protecting its young, a bull on a rampage, but never a tiger - and it catches him a touch off guard. For a long moment, he simply stares at the other man, as if he could figure him out if he just looks hard enough. Of course he can't, and with that brief silence passed, he huffs a laugh and shifts his weight to one foot so he can tap the toes of his other on the ground, only to switch sides. Again, again, in a steady rhythm he doesn't mean to keep, but his body moves to it regardless.

"You're a strange guy, V," he says, but it's amused, dipped in the fondness one gets when they've uncovered a facet of someone a little bit clearer. He hasn't known him for long, and they're polar fucking opposites in so many ways, but maybe that's the draw. Someone else just like Nero might be too much, but V is a temperament to Nero's energy, and maybe there's some kind of balance there. His power's nothing to scoff at, either, though he thinks he still hasn't seen more than a fraction of it. That's the kind of dude V is: the calm surface disguises the raging depths, and you'd be damned lucky not to find out. Or to survive finding out. Nero wants to see what he's capable of, but not to be on the receiving end of it.

"Anyway, when d'you think we'll be okay to leave?" He also says the place is skeevy again, but once is probably enough. V didn't agree or disagree with him, so maybe his relationship to organized religion is different than Nero's, and while he could go off, he doesn't want to offend anyone. Something tells him V probably doesn't care - might not even be the worshipping type - but he isn't about to run on gut instinct, not with someone whose presence he's coming to enjoy. "Anywhere's gotta be better than this, right?"

[leonem]

𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕, V’s head tilts idly as Nero shifts his weight and taps his toes to a rhythm he can’t quite discern. A melody he’s yet to learn, perhaps. Regardless, it draws his attention from the tip-tapping of the toes and up to the piercing blue gaze that’s still staring at him. There is the most minute flicker of V’s own lashes, a swift, silent withdrawal that’s barely able to be seen aside from the most attuned of senses -- or, just maybe, by someone that is staring at him with the sharpest eyes he's presently encountered. He swallows, lips parting on a breath before he watches as that same gaze seems to soften. Or, at least, seemingly so by the admittance of Nero’s next words.

You’re a strange guy, V.

He hums, if not in agreement than in acknowledgement; though his brow quirks at the sentiment. But he’s no fool — or so he’d like to think — and neither is Shadow, as evidenced by the way the rumble of her purr gets louder. The tone of Nero’s voice is complimentary enough, according to her purring approval. Not enough to distract from his persistent discomfort, but that was another matter to attend to; and so he lets out another breath, slower, sighing, and rises from the pew. Tapping the side of his cane against the wood, the sound echoes in a sense of hollow from the high marble ceilings that can’t quite be replicated elsewhere. Shadow jolts and rolls lazily over onto all four paws on the floor, tail swishing back and forth, low. “On the contrary," he starts, "this might be one of the safest places to rest for the night.” His tone is mild, nonjudgmental. “But I doubt you’d get much rest, given your current… well.” Stepping forward, he lightly taps the side of his cane against the leg currently tapping Nero’s toes away.

@dcwnseeker

[ficarica]

@sicsemper : “i can't get a good read on you.” in the family way.

an opinion that savvas is not surprised by. he can't say it isn't entirely by design, while savvas has always been quiet, choosing to observe and save lectures for when they are needed, some of how he presents himself is on purpose. like anyone that wants to survive, his choice of how he acts is based on the present company.

he helps run letters, seeks out others by the spy-master's word, finding his place amongst the nest in the rookery. he has let the curious ask their questions, though may have exaggerated his answers to some particularly nosy individuals— or on one particular occasion stared in silence at such an invasive query till that soldier left uncomfortable.

some here remind him of the young in clan lavellan, who used to look to him for guidance, wishing for advice to sharpen their skills. in others, he sees a look, eyes that reminded him of the humans in the free marches, looking with a familiarity that rang as 'this one is different, docile'; a hunter and a trader, a teacher and an elf. the inquisition is filled with strangers, and his patience and kindness are not without their limit.

"you're not the first to say so." savvas brings his eyes to emrys, momentarily setting aside his carving knife and wood. while he does find humor in it, he is slightly apologetic in this case, if only because of the inquisitor's dalish roots. skyhold is filled with expectations. while many do not lay with savvas, he can only assume, from the whispers and the gossip, the overheard conversations of staff and visiting dignitaries, just what they expected of emrys. their inquisitor, their herald.

herald. it sours something in savvas. a single title that displeases him immensely. there is a person beyond that title.

"is this about the fake spiders on josephine's desk?"

[sicsemper]

The flutter of raven wings overhead nearly gives him pause; a sense of home briefly washing over him before that sense is dampened by his gaze flitting around stone walls. There was a time he used to feel the bite of wind on his skin when he heard birdcalls above him. Now he just stares idly upward at the crows in their cages. Messengers, he knows. Necessary. Caged, nonetheless. As his footsteps into the center of the rookery slow to a stop, he’s not blind to his feelings being subconsciously tethered to the unease that rests in the line of his shoulders. He’s had it since Haven, and after everything that’s happened — that continues to happen — he’s not sure it’ll ever break apart; turn to dust, and leave him. Instead, he’s usually lucky if it settles well enough not to roil his stomach.

He’d run — yes, with footsteps light and quick and voices calling behind him — up to the rookery seeking a certain redhead only to find his kin. Violet eyes watch the wood peelings fall from Savvas’ careful draw of the knife. Woodcarving is a skill he’d never had patience for, but at least half of his memories of his father are watching much the same: wood peelings floating down as feathers might. He’s momentarily so distracted by it that he nearly misses Savvas’ last words — fake spiders…?

A crow squawks overhead, loud and abrasive as if to punctuate and drive home the point — and shake the inquisitor out of his ridiculous reverie. Emrys blinks. “Spiders?” Tone set adrift, the notion completely lost on him. This is what happens, he thinks, when he’s been away at the Storm Coast so long the roar of the waves still rolls between his ears. Ears that slowly lower to the shaved sides of his head as a furrow draws his brow, head tilting ever so slightly to one side. He’d made the comment because he couldn’t quite puzzle out why Savvas was up here entirely alone. Instead, he’s landed somewhere else entirely.

“Savvas,” he starts, voice tentative; a natural warmth to it that combats the chill of the room, the breeze whistling through the cracks of the windows. “What have you done?”

[sicsemper]

how do i explain to people that i put so much thought, work, and effort into working within the realm and lore of da:i that i genuinely, after so much meta/critical analysis, had such high hopes for veilguard and… got nothing. and that’s why there’s this disconnect for me.

like. i’m sorry. 😞 heeeeelp.

and frankly once i DO play it regardless of doing it for the fun of it, i will be critical of it because it’s a piece of media and it’s one i CARED about and when that happens i promise i’ll tag any criticism so people can block it or something ffhdhdj

[sicsemper]

other reasons i struggle to forgive: the team had one (1) ☝️ year to pull off DA2 and while you can complain about level design, look at what they did in terms of story!!! 😭

i scream into the abyss and the abyss screams back

[sicsemper]

how do i explain to people that i put so much thought, work, and effort into working within the realm and lore of da:i that i genuinely, after so much meta/critical analysis, had such high hopes for veilguard and… got nothing. and that’s why there’s this disconnect for me.

like. i’m sorry. 😞 heeeeelp.

and frankly once i DO play it regardless of doing it for the fun of it, i will be critical of it because it’s a piece of media and it’s one i CARED about and when that happens i promise i’ll tag any criticism so people can block it or something ffhdhdj

[rpmemes-galore]

i wanna make it unequivocally clear that there are no time limits when it comes to rping with me. idc if you're scrolling through your drafts and you find a thread of ours from two years ago+ and you wanna continue it... but you're afraid i'll be upset with you bc it's been so long...

babes, i am holding your face so gently when i say this: do the thing. i promise, the only thing i'mma be when i see that notif is excited

[sicsemper]

well hello to the little slew of new followers!!

please feel free to jump into my DMs or even reply to this post with which muse you primarily followed for!! it would give me a good idea of where to start with everybody 🙂‍↕️

[indagatus]

sicsemper​:

𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐏 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒,  the wintry wind of the mountain easy to seep in under the crack under the door ––– to seek to sully the ambient warmth of skyhold’s rotunda’s candlelight ;  and, to a degree, the elvhen mage inside it. sleeves rolled carefully to catch and settle at the crook of his elbows, solas stands among leather skins unfolded at his feet ;  a spread of brushes and oils of varying color, with one such paintbrush tucked safely behind his ear as he stands, grey eyes surveying his most recent work documenting their journey for some future generation.

folly, perhaps, to seek to govern what would be remembered, and what would inevitably be forgotten. the truth, he knew, was often mired by the need for fantastic sentimentality. the mural would turn to dust not unlike the ash in his mouth that the thought left in its wake: cold, collecting cobwebs. a furrow knit solas’ brow, drawn tight in an effort to stave off the bile that roils in his stomach. emrys would become–––

footsteps crash into his present awareness ;  the commander a welcome distraction, though the way solas’ ear twitches in his previous irritation may not betray such a sentiment. it was, however, indicative of the fact that he was listening, even as he was slow to turn toward the man himself. chill indeed ;  and he wiggled his toes, wrapped feet recalling the icy bite of the rain that had pelted them for nearly a fortnight. arms folding, he flexes his grip on his biceps, nails lightly scratching over the weave of the folds of his sweater as he turns his gaze on the commander, one brow rising in its arch.    ❛ it is the chill of the mountains that plagues me presently. ❜    voice lilting, his eyes flicker to the door behind the other man, perceptive in their minutely narrowed gaze, before flickering back.    ❛ but ––– at least i am dry. ❜    cullen’s inquiry, however, strikes solas as more than a little… strange. he gives half a thought to the notion that cullen had come to the rotunda seeking someone else out entirely, and now sought only to make polite, idle chatter. grey gaze glancing momentarily back to the painted stone wall, solas decides he can indulge the commander. at least this once.    ❛ was the inquisitor’s briefing so unsatisfactory ? ❜    if only a little.

-

   The commander rolled his shoulders, willing the stiffness to dissipate though Solas was correct, the chill of the mountain was a plague, one he’d scarcely gotten used to. There was a reason he dressed as he did, avoiding the cold was just one measure. He noted the wrappings over Solas’ feet, the state of dress he was in. He didn’t understand it in the slightest. Why not invest in a pair of sturdy boots, something supple yet warm to keep out the damp and the chill. Solas was odd, in many ways, if he were being honest. He’d never voice such sentiments though. “Dry, and preoccupied,” Cullen noted, ducking his chin ever so slightly in apology for interrupting his work. This, at least, Cullen thought he understood. It wasn’t an endeavor he wished to undertake himself, but it was something he admired all the same. 

    He shook his head immediately at the comment, unwilling to speak ill in any way of the inquisitor. “No, his report was, as always, thorough and enlightening.” He insisted, blinking slowly as stars move into his peripheral. His jaw ticked, nostrils flaring as a wave of nausea passed over him. He exhaled, fist clenching behind his back before relaxing once more as the pain passed. “Call it nostalgia from boyhood, if you must,” He clarified, “I find I like hearing stories of your journeys, particularly those I was unable to join you on.” He explained, the white lie wrapped neatly in truth. He had always been adventurous as a child, and he did enjoy hearing the stories, especially the parts that weren’t necessary for briefings, the ones shared over laughter and ale while the party spoken about cringed and feigned embarrassment. “And I admit, I’m going a bit mad looking at my own reports.” He sighed, wiling to acquiesce that in order to explain his presence before seeking his aid. His hand moved to brush through blonde curls, sweeping them back. They were the slightest bit damp, he realized, irritably. 

[sicsemper]

A furrow knits a quizzical brow. Grey eyes watching, closely; he sees the subtlest of sways, weight shifting in a way that might not be concerning were it not for the circles under the commander's eyes. Strange to think he'd come here, regardless. Gaze thread with green dulled by the flickering firelight all around the room, he forgets the paintbrush safely tucked behind his right ear for a moment, bringing his stained hand up to his lips and simply watching more than he is admittedly listening. Or, rather, listening in the same way one listens to Dorian's groaning rants in the Wastes; as a static background noise where words seep through one's awareness on occasion.

Thorough and enlightening.

Indeed, he thinks, amusement writ in the creases that form at the corners of his eyes; a fondness for the inquisitor in question and nothing more. It does nothing to soothe the ever encroaching reality of his observance that their very own Commander Cullen — "You look..." there is a pause for breath, a sigh, "terrible. If you don't mind me saying." He felt no need to mince words, and never truly had in the other man's presence, despite their rocky start. Solas' thumb brushes under his bottom lip. Without further thought, he turns; taking a few long strides to the seat he so commonly occupied and pulling it out to offer. "Please, sit." The hands that grip either side of the backrest tighten their hold as his head tilts ever so slightly to one side, considering. "While I fear the Lady Cassandra's wrath, I'm inclined to think Emr—" A stop and a minute shake of his head. "The Inquisitor's would be much worse if you fell unconscious under my watch."

[spekkios]

video games with FALL VIBES [3/∞] DRAGON AGE: INQUISITION (2014) dev. bioware

[sicsemper]

speaking of replaying da:i again for the 9568789th time: i did what i've never done for the kicks and played champions of the just instead of in hushed whispers and sided with the templars and i

blame my love for cullen on this and

thought why not? and

holy shit it was so well done.

i'm genuinely impressed by it and YES it did take me this long to try that path, but also yes i should put in emrys' bio / path that i'm open to exploring other options because some are equally as good in very different ways. anyway that's that.

[sicsemper]

!!! DID YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU??

HOW DARE YOU COME INTO MY INBOX LIKE THIS <3

[sicsemper]

He stood by the window, where the moon lay behind shifting clouds and the steady curtain of rain. His amber gaze lingered on the glass, watching droplets trace ephemeral paths down its surface - fine threads weaving their way to the edge. On occasion, two would meet, merge, and continue on as one, their journey altered yet aligned. Strange, he mused, how even the most fleeting of things - raindrops born of storm and sky - can find unity, carving a singular path none but they may tread together.

Not unlike the two of them, in some ways. Even the rain understood what it meant to converge; to share a path, if only briefly. A sound drew his attention, faint yet distinct. Not the idle murmurs of one lost in peaceful dreams, but something strained. Troubled. His steps were measured and silent, hardly stirring the air as he crossed the room.

His eyes fell upon the harbinger, noticing how his brow was taut, expression marred by some unseen torment. This was no mere nightmare. No fleeting phantom of the mind could evoke such tension in his features. The sounds he uttered were incoherent, yet laden with weight; words spoken not with voice alone, but from some deeper, fractured place. Zhongli knelt beside him, reaching with practiced care. Ginger strands clung to his dampened forehead, and Zhongli brushed them aside with gentleness. His voice, when it came, was low and steady, a quiet anchor. “You are far from whatever battlefield holds you now,” he murmured, not to wake but to ground. His fingers threaded through his hair, a slow, soothing motion. Be at ease, he thought, his presence offered not as a shield, but as a shelter - quiet, constant, and resolute.

It was becoming more commonplace. The coming and going. Dealings with the bank and dealings... else wise. A search he'd been tasked with that seemed hopeless. It kept him coming back to Liyue more often than not; be it for resources or simply in search of a friendly gaze as his own shoulders had gradually become lowered, downtrodden. The line of his shoulders didn't break so easily, but cracks and crevices over time lead to the inevitable crash: be it in the comfort of linen or stealing a hilichurl hut for the night through less than friendly means, all done with a near to manic grin twisting his lips. Still, when he stepped foot into the Harbor, it was becoming more commonplace, to take solace in the warmth of a shared bed rather than slipping into the shadow of solitude at the Wangshu Inn.

He had not seen a golden smile accompanied by fluttering fairy typically in fits in many, many days. Weeks? He couldn't be sure, as time slipped from his fingers like fine grains of sand, swept away by the wind. When had he last rested? Truly rested? The question bore a heavy weight over his mind, his body. Bruises accumulating, he'd come to Liyue bearing bandaging over his forearms with blood that had already dried over; still offering the faintest tang of iron if one bothered to look at them for too long. And, with practiced ease, he allowed the inevitable crash.

The rain had soaked him through and through; demanded that he strip himself of sodden wet clothe and armor with dew drops slipping over the sleek shine of familiar silver. It all lay by the wayside, without a thought held for its account. All that had mattered was the cup of tea on the bedside, the hands that had brewed it; the words given in some hint of chastisement were like a balm to his soul, at the time. And so, under the hush of a gently falling rain, the ache of his muscles had finally pulled him into sleep.

Sleep, yes. But not the rest he so desperately wished for.

If he had once been weighed down by nothing more than twelve thousand steps, the tension returned to snap his muscles back into fitful sleep; a darkness behind the eyes, trapped within the mind, far too familiar. It presses in from all corners and, in the utter silence, his heart kicks up; because the silence always comes first, he knows. He's been here before, pulse beating with the frantic heartbeat of a terrified child. The silence sits, as if air itself dare not move in the space around him.

Childe already knows it's too late. He will be swallowed by it; mind, body, soul. The strain of his muscle, nor the blood on his blade can push back the tide. Not forever.

Within this there is a touch, both unassuming and unexpected; it startles him out of sleep, jerking upright, breaths quick but quiet. Blue eyes flit about the room, taking in every corner, table, candle: tension in his body noted even in the way his fingers curl tightly in the sheets at either side of his hips, tendons flexing. Sweat drips from his temple to slip down; over his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw, the lines of a slender neck. It settles over his collarbone as his eyes finally lock onto Zhongli; amber eyes shadowed by the ridge of his brow. Childe swallows, but the strain of his shoulders, doesn't dissipate. "You—" His heart throbs in his ears, quick as a hare's feet. Childe bites down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood. He doesn't have anything to say.

Instead, he pushes the sheets from his hips, slips out from under them with a swift kick of his legs so they can swing over the side of the bed. He grips the edge of the mattress, nails digging into the linen as he stares blankly at the floor before his eyes. The room is cast in moonlight, he realizes. He has no idea what time it is. The bolt of his jaw ticks.

[phreinne]

historians will say they were rivals

[vergili]

on “the nightmare” (visions of v: vol 01, missions 07 – 09).

so, i’m rereading visions of v. this means that, naturally, my monkey brain demands that i write little metas as i come across things in this current read. i’m aiming for this to be (fairly) brief commentary, as this will be an ongoing series. my goal is to write one meta per volume, there being the existing five total volumes — but we’ll see if i end up with more (or less)! i should iterate the disclaimer: i do not adhere to the interpretation that v = vergil. i’ll write a little meta on that in and of itself one day, but the long and short of it is: while v is borne of vergil’s actions and vergil’s being, one of the most significant things about v’s narrative is the concept and development of personhood. it’s evident through the canon (especially through visions of v) that the two characters are not interchangeable. that being said, v is a terribly fascinating vehicle through which we can analyze vergil due to his very nature — ie: being the host of vergil’s nightmares, etc. — and that is the perspective from which these metas are going to dig into the material. also to note, usually when i go about these things i insert little links to direct folks’ attention to particular caps / scenes — and i will do that, as always — but for sake of ease, these might end up having some caps alongside the text itself. apologies if this makes things a wee bit messy! all that being addressed, let’s get into it.

as referenced above, it’s worth stating more clearly that this meta is going to be a more in depth look at the introduction of “the nightmare” — v’s most powerful familiar — in volume 01 of visions of v. there’s a lot going on in just these three short chapters in terms of how the narrative of v’s introduction to and interaction with “the nightmare” reflects on vergil’s trauma. which, of course, is one of my favorite things to poke at. so, really, how could i resist?

Keep reading

[sicsemper]

[ WOUND ]:          upon noticing a recent injury on the receiver’s person, the sender carefully moves closer, running a thumb (or hand) across the wound in a gentle, troubled manner. (For Mydei Ahem)

“You worry too much,” it’s immediate, abrupt. “You know that?” The bandaging wrapped around his arm, his core — the center of himself where old blood has seeped through from several wounds across his abdomen, on his back just left of his spine — it’s all familiar, but not fatal. But ‘not fatal’ had in and of itself become familiar in a way that he tried to be quietly mindful of, most days. Most being the key word. In reality, his recklessness had grown, followed him beyond the earliest days of his youth. More than once in his life he’d thought, if Death would not ferry him, why ought he worry his mind?

But then, the wound struck left of his spine — too low to be too concerning — still tugged at his thoughts. Blood deep and dark as the chaise he sits upon, one foot tucked under the opposite knee, stripped of his armor within his own chambers where he’d sought solitude. Lumbar, perhaps, but close enough that the scar will be an ever present reminder that he had slipped, had let his guard down. All lashes from a dying god, yes, and in a successful effort to retrieve the coreflame… but perhaps the cost had nearly been too high; and he’d yet to tell another soul about it. The gentled hands, the light brush of fingertips over that exact wound — oblivious to any true meaning behind it. It’s only then that his eyes snap up, a lion’s gaze at first because it stings, but settling into something less fierce; a fire spurring and then simmering to nothing but warm coals.

He tuts, raising his hands to undo his braid so he can run his fingers through it idly, only to begin to redo it, twining the strands together with practiced ease, though that sting makes his movements slower. “I came here to be at peace.” In his room. Alone. “Not that you’ve ever respected that much.”

[lazyrunawayphilosopher]

The way Phainon was all relieved and smiley after hearing Mydei's voice. Them smiling at each other before preparing to attack. I am in shambles.