sua lumina, sidus.

RESOUNDING AMONG THE TREES LIKE A LANGUAGE FULL OF WARS AND SONGS.

[sualumina]

   ❛❛ ...his bright eyes: a constellation. ❜❜

                                           VIRGIL LEVANTE (the sixth cavalier)                                        & TIMSHEL PENT (the fifth necromancer)                                                  written by kit for dominicusrpg.

     under read more, click on names to be redirected to biographies.

❛❛I may not have amazing victories, but I can amaze you with defeats that I came out of alive.❜❜

VIRGIL LEVANTE, twenty9, Cavalier Primary to the Master Warden of the Sixth House, Alexandrite, Cohort Officer, lawful good, resilient &&. hotheaded. ( luke pasqualino, cis man, he/him. )

❛❛At times I suffer from the strangest sense of detachment from myself and the world around me; I seem to watch it all from the outside, from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of time, out of space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all.❜❜

TIMSHEL PENT, twenty9, Heir to the House of the Fifth, Lord of the Koniortos Court, true neutral, genteel &&. amoral. ( pyry kähkönen, cis man, he/him. )

[seasondreams]

His heartbeat quickens like a bird flapping its wings. Zotikos knows before his gaze lands on the poor creature that there's little to be done. Nothing within his power, for his skills rest in the rapier at his hip, at the shoulder he provides Gen, in the hands that prepare for death rites. His touch was made for worship, and faith never heals the way he needs.

But those same hands reach for Timshel's. Closer, closer, gaze finally dropping to the dove still crying. A gentle finger strokes atop the head, trying to calm it --- trying to calm himself. His eyes roam over the wing, the dread slowly crawling to a roar in his ears. "Yes. A broken wing." Each word clear, without despair. It is not yet a death sentence. The odds could land in the creature's favor. But the dread still crashes, pressing upon his shoulders, urging him to prepare. It's what he was built for. It's what he will do until his last breath leaves his body and his soul is offered to the Seventh.

Zotikos slowly takes the bird from Timshel's hands, careful not to jostle the broken wing. "Perhaps Althaea may be of help." A hope, flickering still. The dread does not ease.

He finally meets Timshel's eyes before quickly breaking gaze again, swallowing once, twice. "Let us take it outside. Being in the open air, among familiar sounds, may ease it." It'll be a mercy for it too, should its life flame extinguish quickly and without warning. Let it be under the sun than within any walls.

Zotikos tilts his head back the way he came, but doesn't wait for a response before his feet carry him away. It is not that Timshel harbors trouble that he pulls back. But he cannot discern those eyes. For years, he's learned how to parse a soul's light in another's gaze, has witnessed it brighten and fade in the same breath. Those years crumble when under Timshel's gaze. He cannot stand it.

And yet --- he still offered. And yet, he still strains his ears to see if footsteps will follow.

[sualumina]

               𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒   𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋   𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄.   Timshel   is   jolted   with   awareness   when   his   hands   brush   against   an   usher   of   death.   Oh,   how   that   bodes   ill   for   the   dove,   but   he   sees   the   real   miracle   of   saintly   reverence   in   Zotiko’s   gentle   grasp.   It’s   not   just   a   tender   touch.   It’s   a   look   of   compassion   and   despair   laid   upon   the   dying   creature   like   a   white   sheet.   It’s   a   look   of   sweet,   sincere   pathos—   a   sentiment   he’s   incapable   of—   a   look   that   can’t   hold   his   gaze   for   long.   He   notices.

       ❛❛ I   was   thinking   the   same. ❜❜   Timshel   hides   his   scratched   hands   behind   his   back   and   follows.   The   red   sting   is   extrinsic,   like   someone   describing   what   pain   feels   like.   He   frowns   at   the   floor   and   the   candelabra   wall   sconces   and   at   his   feet;   it   bothers   him   to   awaken   so   confused,   but   his   discernment   is   weak   as   of   late.   The   call   of   the   River   once   lulled   him   into   clouded,   maladaptive   daydreams,   and   when   he   sought   to   clear   his   mind   of   the   ghosts,   he   walked   into   those   dreams   instead   of   returning   from   them.

       He   tracks   the   clouds   as   they   step   into   the   courtyard   with   a   sense   that   he’d   been   dreaming   of   this   sky.   An   alarmed   flutter   of   birds   and   insects   clears   away   when   the   dove’s   dying   hoots   interrupt   the   peaceful   goings,   some   taking   perch   atop   windowsills   and   tree   branches   or   fleeing   to   their   nests.   Timshel   admires   Zotikos’   sensibilities   amid   his   indissoluble   trance;   the   ocean   breeze   weaves   into   the   loom   of   his   bones,   and   chirps   and   chitters   return   color   and   texture   to   his   unfocused   sight.

He   watches   Zotikos   with   wonder.   The   Seventh   House   deifies   death,   but   death   is   an   unremarkable   occurrence   to   every   living   being   except   humans;   mercy   does   not   accompany   its   operations.   Timshel   believes   that   some   delight   in   its   illusions,   because   originating   in   them,   it   must   have   some   analogy   with   their   fate.   His   thinking   is   as   naked   as   a   skeleton,   without   the   fraying   and   tattered   flesh   of   the   ideal   social   sensitivity   he   was   raised   with,   but   these   considerations   are   a   vague   nausea   for   which   he   can   think   of   no   physical   cause...   he   stays   quiet.   He   keeps   his   thoughts   in   the   abyss.

       ❛❛ If   we   can't   find   Althaea,   are   you   comfortable   with   mercy-killing ? ❜❜

[seasondreams]

sunlight streams throughout the entire castle, and with it, the sounds of waking animals --- but a siren call of pain and grief latches onto ZOTIKOS, and he cannot help but follow its song through one of the smaller TOWERS. / @sualumina

he cannot let this go. it could be simple: there is no trap he needs to release himself from. truly, he cannot be sure there's a wounded bird. the farther he follows, the distance never closes. he's crossed half the castle, gently pushing open doors and breathing sighs of relief when they easily open. but the hoot never draws closer. perhaps he's chasing an echo of a spirit. perhaps his mind is tearing itself apart. he should turn back.

and yet --- and yet. a soul may be in need of peace. and no matter how his gut churns with dread, no matter how numb his fingers turn at the thought of holding another death in his hands, he must move forward.

another hoot echoes. zotikos sucks a breath through his teeth, a fist knocking against the wall in slow-building frustration. but it's when he rounds another corner and nearly collides with another that a growl nearly falls. he swallows it all, face lifting to meet eyes that pierce through him.

zotikos swallows. "my apologies. i --- " there, once more: a long, painful hoot. his eyes flick around, trying to find the source. was it closer this time? it was --- wasn't it? "you do hear that, yes?"

[sualumina]

               𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒   𝐀𝐑𝐄   𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐃   𝐈𝐍   𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒   𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄   𝐇𝐄   𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐄𝐒   𝐈𝐓.   Timshel   is   up   from   the   desk   and   by   the   half-open   window   within   the   span   of   a   blink,   it   seems,   and   he’s   looking   out   to   seek   what   ushered   the   hooting   creature   in   with   such   frenzied   haste.   Dominicus’   light   reflects   against   the   ocean   seen   at   a   distance,   but   close   by,   heavy   sways   of   crooked   tree   branches   bend   against   the   breeze;   rustling   leaves   and   sounding   water,   and   blue   smeared   so   thickly   it   blinds.   He   can’t   discern   the   disturbance,   but   he   can   feel   it.   He   had   fallen   asleep   over   the   desk   atop   a   sprawl   of   books,   but   he   doesn’t   know   how   long   he   slept   for—   he   remembers   only   the   strangest   dream   before   the   frantic   flapping   of   wings   woke   him.

Timshel   is   stunned   to   realize   that   he   has   already   caught   the   bird.   Not   because   he’s   surprised   at   his   fleetness— although, it is staggering—   but   because   he   doesn’t   remember   crossing   the   room   to   catch   it.   He   loosens   the shockingly forceful   restraint   of   his   fingers   with a flinch and   assesses   the   damage:   a   struggling,   limp   wing hangs open as the dove settles in his grasp amidst complaints.   Feathers   line   the   windowsill   at   the   drop   point   of   impact   where   it   miscalculated   its   trajectory—   no,   if   not   for   the   open   curtains,   the   dove   wouldn’t   have   attempted   to   dive   into   a   half-open   window.   Timshel   wanted   the   view,   and   so   he   set   the   stage   for   misfortune.   A   pang   of   guilt   rises,   but   it   doesn’t   surface.   He is   compromised;   an   opposition   of   compassion   and   detachment   replace   the   other   as   soon   as   one   settles   in   a   rapid,   fogging   cycle.

He   could’ve   sworn   that   he   had   been   dreaming   of   birds   before   the   disruption   woke   him,   but   the   details   wash   away   with   every   swell   and   crash   of   a   distant   wave.   It’s   not   important   anymore.   He   looks   down   at   it   and   wonders   what   he’s   going   to   do. 

       He   nearly   collides   with   Zotikos   as   he   returns   to   the   main   hall.   Timshel’s   eyes   are   shadowed   with   unease—   he   doesn’t   feel   fully   awake   yet—   and   he   lifts   his   hands   so   that   his   robes   drape   away   to   reveal   the   injured   dove   after   another   weak   and   pitiful   hoot   wracks   its   insignificant,   blameless   body.

       ❛❛ It   crashed   into   the   study   I   was   in   through   a   half-open   window.   I   think   it's   broken   a   wing,   or   it   could   just   be   dying, ❜❜   he   explains.   ❛❛ I   was   hoping   to   find   someone   who   can   ease   it. ❜❜

[bitsyarachne]

The gardens left something to be desired, but at least Arachne was able to find a largely intact bench to perch upon. She settled with her back against the glass, vines rising high above her head as she drew her fingers through leaves and along broken pots. She didn't recognize the beetles crawling about, but they captured her attention. She watched as the smallest one crawled over the tip of her painted nail. For all her moaning about getting her hands dirty, she'd always had a soft spot for beetles like the one before her. This one's shell was iridescent almost, and firm, though she knew it would crack with hardly any pressure. It just was a reality, with how small the beetle was. She wished she'd brought a field guide out with her, something to name and identify the insects she'd discovered.

It surprised people, whenever they learned she was interested in knowledge too. Her mind wandered to a meeting with the son of a businessman. He'd worn an ill-fitting suit, desperately trying to appear wealthier than they both knew he was. His father's business was on it's deathbed, and Arachne had no interest in reviving it. He'd tried to appeal to her finer senses, as he'd called it, offering bribes in the form of clothes and jewels, stolen from God knew where. She'd been disinterested and unimpressed, until he'd quipped in a language she'd only heard a few times before. That had been his ticket. Lessons in exchange for a hand up, however fleeting her assistance had been. It wasn't her fault he'd squandered the gift she'd given.

She exhaled, looking down at her arm once more to find that more of the little beetles had made their way across her pale skin. Some were larger than others, but none weighed enough to make it even noticeable that she was covered in them. She lifted her palm, wriggling her fingers as she watched the beetles move about, amusement dancing in her light eyes. What lovely little things they were. She wondered if they could bite. She wondered if it would hurt. She wondered if they'd make noise should she press her nail into their shell, or tear their wing from their — oh. Foolish little princess. She should have realized it was more than the chirping of birds and the scratch of insect legs against her flesh keeping her company in the gardens.

Arachne raises a brow, watching with genuine astonishment as Virgil appears out of a bush as if it's the most sensible place in all the planets to be. A laugh of disbelief puffs from soft, painted lips, as she watches him. This man is a stranger, and stranger still given his choice in places to rest. "You're a terrible liar." She purrs, extending a beetle covered hand toward him. "Aren't they beautiful? Delicate little things, but I do believe they may have a bit more than meets the eye. See here," She draws her finger up toward her eye so she can look closely. "Pincers, so tiny though they're easily missed. It must be a male. I do wonder if the females of this species have the good sense to rip off his head after mating?" She smiles, thinking fondly of the praying mantis, and an array of spiders, all of which were carnivorous in some form.

She sets her hand back down, letting the beetles disperse, though she's pleased no more have flown away in response to his interruption. Timid, that one. "Are you looking for something? Perhaps I can help." She hums.

[sualumina]

               𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄   𝐈𝐒   𝐀   𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋-𝐊𝐄𝐏𝐓   𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓   𝐓𝐎   𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒   𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓   𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓   𝐇𝐈𝐌,   𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇,   𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐘   𝐎𝐅   𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐖𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓   𝐎𝐅   𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓,   𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃   𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐋   𝐈𝐍   𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐃𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘   𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐄   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄   𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄   𝐎𝐅   𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇.   It’s   called   the   fine   art   of   not   being   offended:   one   must   see   that   every   assertion,   action,   and   reaction   of   another   person   is   the   sum   of   their   life   experience.   In   other   words,   the   reflection   of   them.   Arachne   self-reports   flippantly   and   without   remorse—   she   does   not   think   highly   of   men.   Virgil   swallows   the   disturbing   implications   of   her   casual   musings   and   clears   the   discomfort   in   his   throat.

       ❛❛ Sorry,   I   wouldn’t   know. ❜❜   He   offers   with   an   awkward   smile   as   he   resolves   to   engage   with   someone   he’d   rather   keep   at   an   arm’s—   no,   at   a   field's   length.   He   hopes   that   Dr.   Sextus   hasn’t   strayed   too   far   to   rescue   him.   Virgil   isn’t   under   the   suspicion   that   the   Third   House’s   Heir   is   out   to   cause   damage   right   now,   but   based   on   the   grim   variety   of   the   rumors   surrounding   the   Princess,   he   supposes   she   has   a   dreadful   temper   that   he   doesn’t   want   to   be   tangled   with.

He   panics   at   her   offer   but   preserves   in   maintaining   an   affable   disposition.   Virgil   won’t   be   caught   dead   shrinking   under   her   curiosity;   he   has   beheld   the   wretches   of   the   universe   and   held   their   gaze   while   life   vanished   from   their   eyes—   he   can   keep   composure   in   front   of   a   tiny,   blonde   woman   in   frills.

       ❛❛ Oh,   that’s   alright.   I   didn’t   mean   to   disturb   you   in   the   first   place, ❜❜   Virgil   reassures,   waving   a   hand.   ❛❛ Besides,   I’m   only   looking   for   a   bird. ❜❜   He   tightens   his   lips   into   a   smile.   He   must   look   like   an   idiot.

       ❛❛ Specifically,   the   blue   bird   that   flew   off   just   now. ❜❜   He   turns   in   the   direction   he   thinks   it   took   flight   to,   but   it   seems   he   might’ve   scared   it   off   to   a   different   vicinity   altogether.   Virgil   eyes   a   blackbird   perched   atop   the   branch   of   a   tree   that   twitches   its   head   at   him—   he   twitches   an   eye   back.   The   bird   flies   away   with   a   gust   of   wind   that   blows   a   leaf   out   of   Virgil’s   hair   and   into   his   face.   He   slaps   it   away   and   begins   plucking   more   leaves   out.

       ❛❛ To   be   clear,   it’s   my   doctor—   my necromancer that’s   looking   for   the   bird. ❜❜   It   feels   odd   to   call   them   that,   but   he   supposes   he   should   start.   ❛❛ I’m   just   upholding   our   oath   by   performing   my   duty   to   support   them   in   all   the   endeavors   they   set   their   honorable   sights   on. ❜❜   Virgil   flicks   a   thin   branch   to   the   ground   and   turns   his   attention   back   to   Arachne.   She   must've   taken   that   oath   a   handful   of   times,   perhaps   Virgil   shouldn't   put   too   fine   a   point   on   it   and   push   it   even   though   he's   joking—   mostly.   ❛❛ They,   um,   really   like   birds. ❜❜

[secondswords]

the truest answer to virgil’s question isn’t one she’d particularly like to impart upon him. to reveal that the only reason she knows how to move like this is because she spent years in someone else’s shadow, that she taught herself out of spite, would not be very becoming. but pieces of the truth, that could be acceptable. “well,” romilly begins, taking a few steps back as virgil enters the room, “i’m short; most opponents will have longer strides and farther reach than me. i had to learn how to compensate for that.”

he pulls his rapier and she recognizes the unspoken invitation immediately. “i taught myself. the second has limited resources on training methods that aren't the traditional cohort style, but i worked with what i had.” she’d had a flimsy booklet on alternative offense methodology, some half-willing sparring partners pulled from her squadron, and an abundance of rancor.

as virgil spins his weapon, romilly momentarily tightens her grip on her own, but not out of fright - this was reflex, the contraction and release to test her muscles before a fight. this was something she was good at, something she knew. something to make her feel like she was standing on solid ground, if only for a few minutes. she takes a quick glance around the room to make sure her brother wasn't lurking before proceeding, and hopes virgil doesn't take note of it.

“to the first touch? clavicle to sacrum?” she questions, the parameters flowing from her tongue as familiar as her own name. “or -" would he be keen for something a little less polished? "to the floor?”

[sualumina]

               𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍   𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒   𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑   𝐎𝐔𝐓   𝐎𝐅   𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒,   𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐋   𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒   𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄;   𝐒𝐇𝐄   𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒   𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃,   𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐇𝐈𝐌   𝐀𝐒   𝐇𝐄   𝐂𝐈𝐑𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐒   𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑.   He   pays   heed   to   her   words   with   a   relaxed   shoulder,   rolling   it   backward   while   considering   the   knowledge   gained.   He   understands   but   doesn’t   relate.   The   Sixth   House   has   the   Swordsmen   Spire   to   prepare   its   students,   and   as   an   Alexandrite,   Virgil   doesn’t   know   what   it’s   like   to   grow   without   the   guidance   of   a   teacher.   The   fact   that   Romily   stands   in   the   company   of   house   heirs   and   distinguished   cavaliers   despite   her   informal   training   colors   a   new   layer   of   significance   over   his   impression   of   her.

      ❛❛ So,   what   did   you   have ? ❜❜   He   questions   in   pursuit   of   insight.   If   she’s   the   kind   of   resourceful   fighter   to   carve   out   a   place   for   herself   on   the   battlefield   despite   the   circumstances,   he   wants   to   know   more—   to   witness   it.   This   is   finally   a   language   he   can   understand.   Virgil   is   pleased   when   the   rules   are   left   up   to   him.   Romilly   is   a   gracious   opponent   for   that   alone,   but   more   importantly,   he’s   given   the   chance   to   incite   aggression   from   her.

       ❛❛ To   the   floor, ❜❜   Virgil   answers   as   he   grips   and   raises   his   rapier,   taking   a   guarded   stance   to   prepare   for   her   attack. 

[altha6a]

PYLADES: I'LL TAKE CARE OF YOU. ORESTES: IT'S ROTTEN WORK. PYLADES: NOT TO ME. NOT IF IT'S YOU.

sixth necromancer & sixth cavalier: @sualumina

[sualumina]

THE FIRST HOUSE, LAND OF WONDER.

♗ ˚ — closed starter, written for @stellainnocentia !

               𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍   𝐈𝐒   𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐍   𝐀𝐓   𝐀   𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄,   𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘   𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄   𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐇   𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒   𝐒𝐎   𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋   𝐎𝐅   𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄   𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓   𝐈𝐓   𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒   𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄   𝐈𝐓'𝐒   𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆.   Timshel’s   face   is   just   like   the   landscape—   shadows   and   sunshine   flitting   over   it   in   rapid   succession   as   he   walks   below   the   shade   of   ancient   trees,   but   the   shadows   rest   longer,   and   the   sunshine   is   fleeting.   He   can’t   grasp   material   reality   with   full   intensity,   despite   its   peace   and   beauty;   part   of   him   resides   far   away   and   beyond   what’s   tangible.   It   has   been   so   since   The   River’s   freezing   and   scorching   waters   touched   his   skin.   Some   waking   moments   are   more   discernible   than   others;   the   missing   piece   sometimes   doesn’t   seem   important,   he   can   feel   and   sense   and   act   without   it.   Other   times,   he   feels   like   a   piloted   marionette,   except   he   can’t   tell   if   he’s   the   puppeteer   or   the   puppet.

Timshel   strays   from   Bedivere’s   side   whenever   this   strange   disposition   befalls   his   spirit   to   spare   him   the   sight.   It’s   worse   when   his   eyes   don’t   recognize   the   man   in   Timshel,   Bedivere’s   gaze   lands   on   him   like   a   hurled   accusation   and   no   judge   or   lawyer   can   defend   him   and   win;   he   knows,   he   knows.   But   even   as   he   puts   this   space   between   them,   Timshel   is   eager   to   get   back,   he   only   hopes   it   doesn’t   take   hours   this   time.   He   needs   an   anchor   to   tie   him   to   the   living   world—   a   flower,   a   tree,   a   creature   that   crawls   on   and   clings   to   the   earth.

       He   spots   a   man   picking   berries   along   a   trellis,   his   face   obscured   by   shrubs   as   he   reaches   up   to   snatch   small,   dark   fruit   from   a   hanging   stem.   His   shoulders   droop   when   he   heaves   a   sigh   of   exertion   as   if   stretching   upwards   takes   a   lot   of   effort.   It’s   then   that   Timshel   notices   the   cane   he’s   been   clutching   as   it   wobbles   below   his   weight   when   he   reaches   for   another   berry,   hanging   just   beyond   his   reach.   Timshel   steps   in   to   grasp   the   branch   and   pull   it   down,   lowering   the   whole   bunch   to   an   easier   height.   The   surprise   that   colors   the   Seventh   Heir’s   face   is   met   with   a   genuine   smile.   Timshel   had   hoped,   one   day,   to   meet   the   young   scion   of   the   Seventh   House,   but   Duke   Septimus   has   proven   to   be   a   hermit,   and   it's   only   under   outstanding   circumstances   that   Timshel   is   finally   putting   a   face   to   the   name. 

       ❛❛ I   hope   you   don't   mind   the   intrusion. ❜❜   Timshel's   voice   blends   with   the   lilting   calls   of   the   blackbirds   overhead.   He   has   to   look   down   to   make   eye   contact.   ❛❛ It   looked   like   you   were   struggling. ❜❜

[shisasan]

Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha (1922)

[fhosdfoisdhfodsi-deactivated202]

#for science

[areteus]

𝓗umor was never how Gawain got along with people, considering that most of her quips were dry and her deadpan expression didn’t help anything land. “They surely didn’t teach you chivalry in the cohort— is that a Sixth house special, or is it something you read in fairytales?” Still,  with all the new cavaliers and necromancers cohabiting the run-down castle, it was nice to know that there was a fellow cohort member that she worked with instead of just knew through orders. Gawain didn’t know Virgil personally, but it helped that they had somewhere to work off of. Gawain put a hand on her hip, waiting for Virgil to finish freeing himself from the vine before she spoke, “Master Warden doesn’t have any ideas on what’s going on?” she asked, genuine. All the formalities that came with the Canaan house went over her head, not to mention that houses had started to collect based on how well they knew each other. The fourth would remain under the wings of the fifth— and the second would try their hardest to set some sort of order in the coming days. Gawain knew how all this worked, well accustomed to the automatic separation that came between houses in the cohort. It was never like this though-- with necromantic scions thrown in the mix.  Yes, Gawain hailed from the third house, but she spent most of her life with the only distinguishing part of the third house she held on to being the purple aiguillettes on her ceremonial uniform. Other than that, she was just another person that blended into the ranks of the soldiers. Besides, well, the fact that she used to have a necromancer on her side. 

Not anymore though. Not in the way that mattered. Gawain stood behind the heir of Ida more often than she stood beside them. It was just proper order.

Gawain offered Virgil a sympathetic smile, “I don’t think I can speak for the third house on those decisions, Levante. But should the Sixth house ever need another sword, you can rely on me— as a soldier, and perhaps even a friend.” Gawain looked at the pots, the porcelain now half-covered in dirt with his shoddy attempt at hiding his tracks, “Beside the fact that they’re broken? I don’t think the Teacher has hid a little slip of paper in these urns, Levante.” She nodded towards the entrance to the ivy-clad gazebo, “Maybe there’s a plaque of some sort in there— I don’t think we’ll get answers, but we can orient ourself there.” Gawain stepped off the grass, military issue-boots noisy on the cobblestone walkway as she started walking towards the pavilion, “There’s so many skeleton constructs crawling around this place, but they haven’t bothered to keep up their garden, does that seem odd to you?”

[sualumina]

               𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐍’𝐒   𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊   𝐈𝐒   𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑   𝐉𝐔𝐃𝐆𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓;   𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘   𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓   𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇   𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐘   𝐈𝐍   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐂𝐎𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓—   𝐍𝐎𝐓   𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍   𝐈𝐍   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𝐌𝐄𝐍   𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄—   𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐓   𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒   𝐎𝐅   𝐀   𝐃𝐔𝐄𝐋.   Virgil   knows   that   he's   a   violent   man.   That   unsparing   violence   has   been   his   inclination   for   a   decade   and   often   his   only   repertoire,   but   he   doesn’t   count   anyone   at   Canaan   House   among   his   enemies.   It’s   a   relief   to   join   the   day   each   morning   without   the   machinations   of   war   preoccupying   every   waking   thought.   Days   beside   Dr.   Sextus   reminded   him   of   peace—   of   who   he   is   when   not   a   soldier.

       ❛❛ I   count   it   as   a   personal   virtue. ❜❜   Virgil   shrugs,   then   offers   an   honest   answer:   ❛❛ And   no,   not   that   I   know.   We’re   looking   around   until   we   figure   something   out. ❜❜

       He  wonders   about   the   timetable   for   these   trials.   He   feels   antsy   and   impatient,   turning   to   stare   at   every   construct   that   walks   by   and   every   insect   that   buzzes   past   as   if   they’ll   lead   him   to   answers.   Gawain’s   words   offer   reassurance   and   gentle   easement.   He   has   never   known   enemies   among   the   houses— all   of   his   hatred   is   reserved   for   the   Blood   of   Eden— and   he   has   no   desire   to   build   rifts   between   the   few   gathered   here.

       ❛❛ And   you   can   count   me   among   your   allies, ❜❜   Virgil   promises in return,   sensing   Gawain’s   burden.   Rumors   of   the   Third   Heir   are   so   far-spreading   that   they   reached   his   remote   ears   as   he   left   his   station   for   the   ceremony   at   the   Sixth   House.   Be   lucky   you’re   from   the   Sixth,   someone   had   whispered,   and   Dr.   Sextus   requested   you.   Gawain   wasn’t   so   fortunate.   After   a   notable   pause   in   which   he   considers   bringing   up   the   obvious,   Virgil,   with   some   attempt   at   decorum,   asks:   ❛❛ How   is   your   necromancer ? ❜❜

       He   eyes   the   shattered   pots   and   then   looks   to   the   gazebo   entrance.   He   supposes   he   won’t   fool   anyone   with   his   lazy   attempt   at   hiding   the   mess,   so   he   can   only   leave   before   someone   else   learns   it was his doing.

          ❛❛ We   wouldn’t   have   known   unless   I   checked, ❜❜   Virgil   sneers   at   her   jab   with   a   teasing   roll of his eyes   and a smile as   he   walks   toward   the   gazebo,   glancing   behind  him to   see   that   she’s   keeping   pace.   ❛❛ And   yes,   I   have   been   wondering   that.   The   whole   castle   is   in   disarray   or   disrepair,   but   it   still   has   keepers. ❜❜   He   kicks   a   pebble   in   the   way.   ❛❛ What   are   they   keeping,   then,   if   not   the   castle ? ❜❜

[altha6a]

location: the (un)locked door the rules of stigmata

“Not to be the one who states the obvious, but there is fifteen bones. Fifteen minus six does not make ten.” If there is one thing that Althaea can show an ounce of gratitude for is that they are accompanied by the Ninth House— the house of bones, or something equally as macabre. Their familiarity of bones extends to repairing breaks, to sewing them back together. Not some riddle around them. And truthfully, Althaea has never been a fan of puzzles. Medicine is straight forward, linear. An exact and precise science that she can achieve with ease. This is designed to trick them. One of her hands extend, grazing the medial condyle of one of the larger femurs. Perhaps a thanergy signature remained? The owner of the bone leaving them a message through time?

The bone is devoid of anything. Methodically so. Removed of any remnant of an owner, any semblance of a history. Someone took their time removing any trace of an identity from these femurs. “Nonagesimus—” Their voice was gentle, head tilting toward the woman. Their tone is awkward, a little uncertain, “Does anything about this... perhaps speak to you in some way? Some... pattern in the bones or something? I don't know. Do the bones speak to you?”

The room itself is miserable and does nothing to encourage their understanding of the situation. Everything is just as dead as the bones. Dark eyes shift across, abandoning the scale and bones, seeking out their cavalier, “Can I steal that scroll from you?”

[sualumina]

               𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄   𝐒𝐈𝐗.   𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄   𝐓𝐄𝐍.   𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃   𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓   𝐇𝐄   𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓   𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃.   Virgil   stands   at   the   corner   of   the   barren   room,   scanning   the   scroll   as   if   he   means   to   discover   additional   clues   hidden   in   the   old   parchment.   ❛❛ Find   what   he   left   behind. ❜❜   He   murmurs,   frowning.   He’s   admittedly   not   fond   of   puzzles.   If   there’s   a   way   to   brute   force   his   way   to   an   answer,   he’ll   eventually   find   it—   even   stupidity   has   its   merits   when   you’re   self-aware.   But   he’s   in   the   company   of   necromancers—   of   heirs—   and   feels   no   suspicion   that   one   of   them   expects   him   to   solve   the   puzzle.   After   all,   Virgil   can’t   figure   out   who   ❛ he ❜   in   the   instructions   refers   to,   other   than   the   most   obvious   answer:   the   Emperor.   The   fact   that   he’s   not   confident   in   that   response   keeps   him   from   speculating   out   loud. 

After   all,   the   more   he   thinks   about   it,   the   more   ridiculous   his   ideas   are.   They’re   left   with   nine   bones   if   they   take   six—   why   they’re   all   femurs   is   beyond   him—   causing   him   to   wonder   if   they’re   meant   to   procure   one   on   their   own.   Perhaps   they   could   get   one   from   one   of   the   constructs   walking   about   the   castle,   but   wouldn’t   that   technically   be   destruction   of   property ?   He's   already   accidentally partaken   in   that,   he supposes.   What   if   it’s   meant   to   come   from   one   of   the   people   standing   in   the   room,   though,   like   an   exchange ?   Virgil   shudders   at   the   thought.   It’s   only   until   Dr.   Sextus’   voice   is   directed   at   him   that   he   turns   around.   Virgil   immediately   closes   the   space   between   them   and   hands   them   the   scroll,   taking   another   chance   to   glance   at   the   pile   of   femurs.   Their   questions   ring   true—   surely   the   Ninth’s   Heir   would   have   more   to   elucidate   on   this   matter   than   any   of   them. 

       ❛❛ Can   you   lift   the   scale ? ❜❜   Virgil   turns his focus,   raising   a   brow   at   the   golden   mechanism.   ❛❛ Or   is   it   one   with   the   table ? ❜❜   Whatever   the   case,   he   suspects   the   scale   holds   answers—   perhaps   they   can   simply   find   the   trick   to   it   instead   of   dealing   with   the   bones.

@fuligxn.

[areteus]

𝒲hen Gawain had suggested that they go to the library, it had been mostly out of self-preservation. They could only make so many rounds of the Canaan house with the "don't entered a locked room" rule that loomed over them. There weren't a lot of explicitly locked rooms in the main wings of the Canaan house— just a lot of empty ones. That, and as much as Gawain respected Arachne, there was only so much conversation she could respond to before she started to get too irked to deign a polite response. The doubledoors of the library needed a bit of muscle to push open, and Gawain had no interest in showing off so she just pushed one of the doors wide enough that they could just get through. Of course, letting Arachne go in before she did. Gawain watched as Arachne made her perch to the settee, and almost rolled her eyes. There were others, in the library. The Fifth house pair, alongside the Eighth cavalier. She didn't know much about them past whatever casual conversation that was scrounged over meals. The library was sizable, with a rolling ladder that could be moved to reach the higher shelves. Considering the state of the rest of the castle, Gawain didn't want to take chances with the contraption, and started perusing the texts at a lone spot in the room. The Fifth necromancer is prattling about some inane tale, some romance, by what Gawain could pick up on. She's almost shoulder to shoulder with Bedivere now, who had also been picking some tomes off the shelves. He paused on one, and Gawain turned to look at what had caught his eye. It was a scummy thing, leather flaking off the spine, and twine starting to flake off in clumps. The more worrying thing, though, is the caked blood on the pages. Gawain leaned forward, trying to mouth the few whole words on the page before Arachne walked over to their small growing crowd, her heels clicking rhythmically on the wooden floors.

"Nice of you to join us, Princess," Gawain snarked, stepping off the small stool she had found for herself. Gawain frowned at the princess' outright hostility towards the eighth cavalier, but didn't step in to mediate when Asterion simply gave a levelheaded remark. Still, Gawain attempted to appeal to Arachne's interest of winning the task that the Teacher had set for them, "Princess, I think we found something worth looking at." Gawain gestured towards one of the empty tables in the library with plenty of seats around it, "Perhaps we should take this to the light? It's clearly some sort of code."

[sualumina]

               ❛❛ 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃,   𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄   𝐖𝐀𝐒   𝐀   𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓   𝐎𝐅   𝐇𝐈𝐌—   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐈   𝐃𝐈𝐃𝐍’𝐓   𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖   𝐇𝐎𝐖   𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓   𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓   𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓   𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓   𝐁𝐄—   𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓   𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃   𝐅𝐎𝐑   𝐌𝐘   𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃.   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐃,   𝐈   𝐖𝐀𝐒   𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐘   𝐈𝐍   𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄   𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇   𝐇𝐈𝐌. ❜❜   His   eyes   find   Bedivere   as   the   last   line   leaves   his   lips.   With   a   swift   flutter   of   eyelashes,   he   hopes   to   meet   his   gaze,   but   the   library   doors   creak   open   and   Bedivere’s   attention   is   stolen   with   cruel   abruptness.   Timshel   is   left   staring   at   the   side   of   his   face—   the   familiar   profile   of   a   man   whose   hair   curls   he   even   has   memorized;   the   way   strands   fall   into   place   at   his   temple   and   twirl   behind   his   ear,   locks   that   feel   like   soft   silk   between   his   fingertips.   His   gaze   is   torn   away   and   replaced   by   a   flat,   disinterested   stare   to   address   the   newcomers.   Arachne   forgoes   greetings   as   does   he;   she   is   out   of   sight   as   soon   as   he   notes   her   presence   and   returns   to   his   book.   The   sound   of   her   heels   hints   at   her   whereabouts;   it   is   not   shocking   that   she   sprawls   atop   the   velvet   couch   while   Gawain,   with   some   sense   of   purpose,   begins   examining   the   bookshelves.

       Meanwhile,   the   Eighth   Cavalier   has   been   lost   in   his   private   study   for   an   hour.   Timshel   occasionally   hears   him   murmur   as   he   reads   from   a   different   book—   hunger,   spiders—   he   beckons   her.   Asterion’s   despicable   crime   is   minding   his   business.   He   has   the   misfortune   of   suddenly   finding   himself   in   the   presence   of   one   who   cannot   stand   the   serenity   of   others.   Her   heels   get   busy   again;   she   has   found   a   problem   with   his   existence.   Timshel   has   no   interest   in   getting   involved   until   he   notices   Bedivere’s   closeness   to   Gawain.   He   has   been   quiet   for   a   spell   when   he   appears   behind   them   and   peers   at   the   book   they’re   hunched   over.   ❛❛ Curios   and   curiouser. ❜❜

He   immediately   recognizes   the   jumble   of   letters   as   a   cipher.   Though   the   book   is   nearly   destroyed   and   covered   in   blood,   Timshel   is   drawn   to   the   odd   tome   because   of   the   filth—   something   stirs,   familiar   like   the   call   of   The   River.   He   holds   his   tongue   while   Gawain   calls   for   them   to   gather   beneath   the   light.   There,   Timshel   sets   his   journal   down   and   flips   through   lists   of   book   titles,   authors,   and   passages   until   he   happens   upon   a   blank   page.

       ❛❛ If   I   may,   I’d   like   to   transcribe   the   note   left   behind, ❜❜   Timshel   says   and   glances   at   Gawain.   ❛❛ You’re   right   in   that   it’s   a   cipher.   Those   who   have   been   in   the   Cohort   will   surely   be   familiar   with   its   kind;   the   Cohort   uses   a   handful   of   methods   to   construct   coded   messages   like   this   one.   Of   course,   this   might   use   a   different   encryption   method   altogether. ❜❜   Timshel   notes   as   he   rips   pages   from   his   journal   and   offers   them.   ❛❛ I   invite   anyone   with   experience   to   make an attempt. ❜❜

@fuligxn.

[fuligxn]

effy can feel herself go red in the face — perhaps for the first time she feels half thankful for the face paint and veil that she wears as a nun (or the semblance of one) belonging to her house. the fifth house— and it's scion, who she had flagged at the onset of landing, filing him down with specific care— was one of the groups she had hoped to impress through this project. through them, and a strengthened tie between them, she might be able to ensure better trade routes for her home.

and so to be caught like this, all wild doe eyes and a mouth that can't help but attempt to stammer out a response, feels like an abject moment of weakness. "i wasn't— it felt different from all the other books and i— i wanted to know why."

she can feel the mortification spilling through her and wants to raise her hands to cover her face, but forces them down, holding them in front of her. instead of fleeing like a jackrabbit, she turns towards the necromancer of the fifth house (timshel, offers the voice within her, scrabbling for a name) an edge of questioning in her voice as she does so. "but— um, what knowledge are you seeking out then?" as she inclines her still veiled head at the stack of books lingering in front of him.

[sualumina]

               𝐀𝐋𝐋   𝐈𝐒   𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐃   𝐈𝐍   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐓   𝐎𝐅   𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑,   𝐇𝐄   𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒   𝐓𝐎   𝐒𝐀𝐘,   𝐁𝐔𝐓   𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐋   𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐒   𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐄   𝐅𝐎𝐑   𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐓.   His   discovery   appears   to   have   brought   distress   upon   her;   she   looks   eager   to   escape   the   set   of   circumstances,   enough   that   he   regrets   that   he   spoke   up   at   all—   perhaps   he   should’ve   pretended   not   to   see   and   saved   her   the   agitation.   The   Ninth   Heir   stammers   and   Timshel   internally   cheers   her   on   when   she   notably   gathers   her   resolution   to   face   him,   and   he   opts   to   make   no   further   comments   on   the   matter   of   her   mortification.

       ❛❛ Indeed.   As   you   can   see,   there’s   no   shortage   of   options. ❜❜   Timshel   presents   the   cookbook   atop   his   pile   with   a   wave   of   his   hand.   Then,   more   seriously,   adds:   ❛❛ I   sought   out   records   of   the   ruins   surrounding   the   house, ❜❜   he   explains.   ❛❛ But   trying   to   make   sense   of   these   shelves   is   a   fool's   task.   I   managed   to   find   a   few   insightful   texts:   of   the   botanical   sort,   mostly,   and   one   on   what   I   believe   is   a   native   bird   species.   But   at   present,   I’ve   ended   up   like   you, ❜❜   He   glances   at   her   affably.   ❛❛ Drawn   to   whatever   happens   to   stand   out.   I   will   say,   the   amount   of   ancient   fictional   literature   is   rather   impressively   preserved   here.   There   are   so   many   authors   I’ve   never   heard   of,   which   is   surprising,   given   that   their   covers   claim   to   be   best-selling. ❜❜ 

Beyond   claiming   to   be   best-selling,   they   list   a   handful   of   other   works   penned   by   the   author,   as   if   their   promotion   will   incite   Timshel   to   pick   up   the   novels—   yet   he   has   not   heard   of   those,   either.   He’s   holding   one   such   cover   in   his   hands.   After   a   quiet,   thoughtful   pause,   Timshel   murmurs:   ❛❛ It’s   quite   curious. ❜❜   Before   he   resets   his   focus   on   her.   He   blinks,   then,   with   some   sheepishness and a flutter of laughter,   introduces   himself.  

       ❛❛ Excuse   me—   I’ve   forgotten   my   manners.   Iphigenia,   yes ?   It’s   a   pleasure.  I’m   Timshel. ❜❜

[bellemaledictions]

Frankly Philly didn't know if they were expected to work together or not. Teacher seemed to have been pretty damn vague about basically anything. The only rule was having permission to open any locked doors... Very helpful. Maybe it was her history in the cohort or maybe it was just that Philly was more used to working as part of a pair than as individuals, even if there was a wrench tossed in that somewhat recently, either way she figured there was no harm in some amount of collaboration at least a little bit. Especially since she had less of a mind for theory than some other necromancers. She could read and understand it, of course, but she'd always just sort of felt it out rather than focus too hard on theorems.

And behind door number 1?! A hallway! Shocker. One far end had a spiral staircase leading down below this floor and at the other was yet another door. Unremarkable compared to any other door. Would this one be locked or open? Her impromptu companion introduced himself and she grimaced at her title. Baroness of Tisis was technically correct but Emperor above she chafed under it. "Philly, please." She gave a polite if a bit strained smile. "I can't say I'm particularly partial to titles either." Stepping further in she took a quick glance around and when she spoke again it was more light and playful. "A gorgeous oceanfront view." She gestured towards the large windows which did in fact peer out over the water... Most of the windows above the waterline did. "Otherwise, a door and some stairs. A true wealth of options." The cheeky smile was easier this time. "Any preferences Timshel?" It was only a little bit of a test, and mostly just being curious how someone she just barely really knew would act. He'd followed her this far after all, that made him at least a little interesting.

[sualumina]

               𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐋   𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒   𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐘’𝐒   𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍   𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇   𝐀   𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓   𝐍𝐎𝐃.   Given   that   its   precious   sights   lie   behind   locked   doors,   the   hallway   they   step   into   is   unremarkable   by   the   castle’s   standards.   He   pauses   to   appreciate   the   view   beyond   the   large   window,   where   softly   undulating   waves   crash   into   the   shoreline   below   and   form   crescents   of   shimmering   foam   that   appear   to   sparkle   against   dominicus’   bright   light.   Timshel   has   concluded   that   half   of   his   enjoyment   so   far   has   arisen   from   the   planet’s   beautiful   and   peaceful   weather,   but   feels   at   once   that   he   cannot   feel   at   home   here—   he   is   better   soothed   by   tumultuous   thunder   and   dizzying   flashes   of   lightning,   knowing   that   he   is   safe   indoors,   than   by   a   calm   sea   and   its   mysterious   waters.   He   once   delighted   to   delve   into   depths   unknown;   the   second   time   he   wishes   not   to   lose   so   much   of   himself—   but   then   again,   is   he   even   himself   anymore ? 

       Timshel   steps   away   from   the   window.   The   way   Philly   lays   out   the   options   gives   the   room   a   greater   sense   of   discovery   when   she,   for   some   reason,   defers   to   him.   Is   it   politeness,   or   assessment ?   If   it’s   the   latter,   Timshel’s   interest   is   earned.   They   are   both   houses,   if   you   suppose,   and   each   door   leads   to   a   discovery   about   the   other.   Timshel   wonders   what   crosses   her   mind   when   he   makes   his   way   to   the   door   and   wraps   his   hand   around   the   doorknob. 

       ❛❛ Let’s   sweep   the   area   before   delving   deeper.   Easier   than   to   backtrack,   isn’t   it ? ❜❜   The   door   creaks   open.   ❛❛ Ah,   not   locked.   Pity. ❜❜   Timshel   peers   inside:   it   appears   they’ve   stumbled   upon   one   of   the   unoccupied   studies   the   teacher   mentioned.   Like   the   hallway,   a   large   window   overtakes   the   southern   wall.   A   simple   desk   and   chair   are   pushed   against   it,   with   a   seating   arrangement   of   two   chairs   and   an   ottoman   beside   a   shelving   unit   positioned   at   the   opposing   corner.   Timshel   purses   his   lips.   ❛❛ Nice   enough   for   an   evening’s   studies,   but   too   close   to   the   dining   quarters   for   my   preference. ❜❜

He   turns   to   the   staircase   with   a   satisfied   nod,   then   raises   a   motioning   hand   toward   the   landing.   ❛❛ We’re   down   to   one   option.   After   you— ❜❜   Timshel   feels   bile   rise   at   the   back   of   his   throat.   A   voice—   his   voice   screams   in   his   head.   You   sound   ridiculous,   it   says.   Have   you   always   been   so   carefree ? 

❛❛ Excuse   me, ❜❜   he   clears   his   throat.   ❛❛ After   you,   Philly. ❜❜

[metamorphesque]

The Lord of The Rings: The Two Towers, J.R.R Tolkien

[calirphs]

𝐏𝐘𝐑𝐘 𝐊𝐀𝐇𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓

costume details. 3.04.

[altha6a]

“I could loan you my title? Master Warden Virgil Levante— Heir of the Sixth House, et cetera, et cetera.” Her face rests in her hands, cupping it in a slightly slumped position, peering toward Virgil. Inherently, he wasn't wrong. They should rest. The trip from the Sixth to the First hadn't been long— but they had to be practically pulled out of paperwork by their cavalier, dragged onto the ship. If she thinks about it for too long, Althaea isn't quite sure when they last got a uninterrupted eight hour sleep. (And then they definitely don't fall asleep for a few moments, a small hum as her eyes reopen after a long blink.)

“While an incredibly fair point— I figure if we are going to attempt to become Lyctor's, there is little point in dancing around being shy,” There is no breaking this chain. It becomes death do us part. There had been some sermon, extensive and reactionary, lecturing on the necromancer-cavalier bond as proof of God, something sacred. More than marriage, more than duty. Bemoaning something about the Fifth House. (They'd stopped reading around the seventh page.) “I'm not going to make you stand outside like... some kind of glorified gargoyle. They already gave you an atrocious bed!” With that they stand up in a movement and flurry, coat swishing as they take a few steps across the room, grasping one of the ugly navy pillows from the couch and throwing it onto the undignified bed. “— Explore, yes. I saw birds when we arrived. One was a beautiful blue, we should absolutely go and check them out.”

[sualumina]

               ❛❛ 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓   𝐁𝐄   𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒. ❜❜   Virgil   scoffs.   The   Levante’s   entertained   an   Alexandrite   among   them   due   to   novelty;   every   one   of   them   has   earned   important   positions   in   the   Sixth   through   their   ability   to   wield   necromancy.   It’s   a   matter   of   pride.   Ironically,   Virgil’s   silver   First   Lieutenant   insignia   is   merely   considered   an   attractive   decoration.   He   must’ve   read   dozens   of   pages   congratulating   him   on   his   ascension,   but   in   them,   his   parents   and   their   parents   never   failed   to   remark   how   it   was   the   best   he   could   do   ❛ given   his   situation ❜. 

First   Cavalier   of   the   Sixth   House—   now   that   rustled   the   family   tree.   He   felt   their   pride   and   what   they   left   unsaid:   for as much as their shoulders rose, they   would’ve   preferred   him   as   the   Heir.   As   a   necromancer.   If   he   inherited   what   the   Levante’s   consider   a   birthright,   perhaps   he   would’ve   been;   from   their   perspective,   he’s   standing   in   Althaea’s   shadow.   But   ah—   these   are   grievances   of   the   past.   After   all,   necromancy   has   never   been   his.   It’s   the   sword.   It   was   always   going   to   be   the   sword. 

       ❛❛ Sorry—   I   didn’t— ❜❜   Virgil   looks   at   Dr.   Sextus,   sees   their   tired   face,   and   then   returns   to   moving   one   of   the   wardrobes   to   the   side.   He   didn't   mean   to   scoff.   ❛❛ It   just   sounds…   stupid. ❜❜   Virgil   resists   rolling   his   eyes   at   himself   by   checking   the   wall   and   floorboards   before   pushing   the   wardrobe   back   in   place.   The   castle   is   decrepit   now,   but   Virgil   heard   it’s   stood   for   centuries.   The   architect   had   the   foresight   to   build   it   strong:   the   windows   are   deeply   set   in   the   wall,   and   the   corners   of   the   room   are   defended   with   large   jutting   stones.   He   hasn’t   found   any   hidden   compartments   or   ways   to   spy   on   them,   but   he   looks   under   the   beds   to   be   sure.   War   makes   a   man   see   hidden   enemies   in   every   room   he   steps   into.   His   first   platoon   leader   taught   him   that;   he   died   shortly   after.

       He’s   crouching   down   to   look   under   his   cot   when   Dr.   Sextus   throws   a   pillow   on   it.   Virgil   smiles—   a   glorified   gargoyle ?   Part of him   assumed   that’s   what   cavaliers   are.   ❛❛ I   don’t   mind   the   cot,   actually. ❜❜   He’s   saying   as   he   stands   back   up,   shrugging.   The   oaths   they   took   bound   their   bodies   and   souls,   but   there’s   an   awkward   distance   that   Virgil   stumbles   in   when   trying   to   talk   to   Dr.   Sextus:   he   does   not   really   know   her.   They’ve   saved   his   life   countless   times,   yet…   he   doesn’t   know   if   they   sleep   in   early   or   late.   He   doesn’t   even   know   what   they   were   doing   before   the   Cohort. 

       ❛❛ Birds ? ❜❜   Virgil   raises   a   brow.   Birds are not what he had in mind. He   feels   stupid   for   asking,   but—   ❛❛ Are   birds   special,   somehow ? ❜❜