Discover Top Posts Tagged with #{arvis.}

1 and 22. Ship of your choice

Historical....and Space??I suppose an Apollo 13 AU where Arvis, Lewyn, and Sigurd have to put aside their differences to work together and ensure they DON’T DIE. I mean I don’t have a ship for this AU but this is the best I can make with the premise I got.

#Deet'var speaks #Sigurd #Lewyn #Arvis.#camelpimp

“that’s for you to decide.” [ from arvis (^: ]

The saga of the volsungs || Accepting @hamartio

It is a response that he meets with silence. A kind that is both tense, and yet eerily calm at the same time-- perturbed, yet unsurprised. Of course, the archbishop should have expected a response along those lines. Such trivial matters needed not a meeting as formal as this, behind closed doors, and perhaps Arvis is aware of that as much as he is. After all, why would someone of his station and reputation-- a tactician hailed as a god of war among the common soldier-- feel the need to pose a question regarding the better of two options to the emperor, of all people? Why would someone so avoidant of the man in the first place decide now to go out of his way to speak with him? He should have picked a direr matter to speak on.

Thankfully, Saias’ posture does not budge, although fingers barely tighten themselves around the pole of a staff. Indifference to a situation should add no further weight to his shoulders, or so the tactician tells himself. And should he falter in front of him, it would surely only be seen as a sign of weakness-- incompetence to an embarrassing degree. No, the matter is Saias’ to decide on once more, yet now with the added pressure of his choices falling under the scrutiny of his own father. An astoundingly foolish move. What must he think? Why give a response so plain? Is this genuine faith in his abilities, or a test?

“...Very well, I will do as I see fit,”

His words are terse-- vacant and horribly formal, despite the gentle tones that naturally permeates the archbishop’s voice. There is no point in lingering longer than needed, and quite frankly, the suffocating air that Saias has found clings to the space between them appears to feel more unpleasant than usual. So, he bows from the waist up, features ever frozen in the neutral, guarded expression that the tactician has long rehearsed since his teenage years. There is no reason to give him any further insights into the problems piling at his feet, nor the opportunity to even consider it.

“If there is nothing left that you wish to discuss, your majesty, I’ll take my leave.”

#✟ ⊱⦃ ❝ɪғ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏғ ɢᴏᴅ… ᴛʜᴇɴ sᴏ ʙᴇ ɪᴛ.❞ ⏤ {ic.} ⦄⊰ ✟#hamartio #{Arvis.}#{ :) }

A kiss for mom? A kiss for mom.

@valflame

From the second she left the forest, Cigyun always knew the gods would find a way to punish her.

Her gaze teeters along lifelessness– vacant and murky, like sort seen in the lakes she spent her younger years around, with every bit of depth seemingly lost to layers upon layers of filth. They at the ceiling but at nothing in particular as she lays atop the bed in her chambers, hands idly resting on her stomach. It is befitting of a duchess, to lounge around in such a manner, but Cigyun was never born to be connected to a title like that, and it was not as though she had made this decision on her own. No– after a sharp sound, and the second tears started to fall, despite her panicked denial of the latter truly happening, the woman was ordered to make her leave. To lock herself away until some sense makes it way back into her.

To Cigyun, it is understandable. Victor has never liked seeing her cry, and has always thought it to be upon the worst– and ugliest, she reminds herself– of sights. The moment it happens, the young mother knows there is even less of a chance that he will listen, but she cannot help it. Lately, everything has been too much– to see her husband, the love of her life, wooing other women and taking them back to his chambers, and yet find herself being disallowed from so much as speaking politely to another man. Being taken for granted, and not having her own distress over the situation understood– silenced by words or worse. It has been too long, and now, Cigyun finds herself without the will to fight back, even a little. She has grown tired.

She has grown tired of the arguing. Tired of being yelled at; tired of being ordered to explain herself, only for her words to quickly be drowned out by his own uncorroborated anger. Tired of–

Before such a train of thought could finish itself, the mother feels a kiss being pressed to her forehead. For a moment, she freezes– for a moment, dull eyes almost spark to life–, until she finds the will to slightly move her head, and look at the one who stands beside her. He must have slipped in while she was lost in thought, Cigyun remarks to herself. After all, Arvis has always had a strange knack for knowing when she is upset. The corners of pale lips twitch, as if trying to form a smile, but without the energy to do so right at this moment, but the heaviness plaguing her heart does lift a little. He is a sweet child, always wishing to lift her mood when their roles should never be switched around in that way– a boy should not have to comfort his own mother. Another of her shortcomings, the duchess supposes, but that list has been growing ever so long as of late. Grey eyes are quick to water again, and her head rolls back up so she might stare at the ceiling once more, and keep herself together. A tear or so falls regardless.

“…I’m so sorry,”

‘You should not have to see me like this,’ are the words the mother desperately wishes to add on, yet she finds her voice too deflated and frail to push out anything more than that. Besides, in a brief moment of thought, Cigyun realises that it would also be far too cruel to say to a child Arvis’ age– too heavy; too upsetting. He did not come here to see his mother wallow in her sorrow, feeling sorry for herself– silently contemplating if she has made the right choices, or what the Gods, or Victor, might do next. That same empty gaze moves once more, resting on her son’s own, but much more lively, eyes. She loves him, dearly– in truth, Cigyun would wager that he is the only real reason, other than paralysing fear, as to why she has not tried to run away from it all. Yet it is hard to the energy to do more than force a smile onto sickeningly pale features, even though the mother wants to do nothing more than hold her child close and tell him not to worry. That she is fine, despite the red blotches under her eyes; despite the tears that unconsciously continue to fall; despite the mark that so slowly shifts from a an angry red to a deeper, darker purple.

“You need not worry about me so. I… I will be fine. Please, Arvis…”

At the expense of her words, the woman finally moves, hands digging into the duvet and arms trembling from the force as she attempts to push herself into a position on her side. By no means is Cigyun anything heavier than a feather– albeit, not necessarily in a good way–, and yet, it feels as though all the weight in the world resides on her shoulders and an indescribable force tries to push the mother down. It feels like than eternity, to get herself into such a simple position, and yet, even when she reach forwards to pull her son into some sort of embrace, the furthest quivering hands make it to is his cheeks, where they gently rest.

“…Seeing you so worried saddens me.”

#⟡ — {ic.}#⟡ — {Muse: Cigyun}#valflame #{Arvis.}#⟡ — {Family: Cigyun + Arvis}#tw: abuse implication #{so funny stORY}#{i thought for so long that i accidentally deleted this}#{but no it was rotting away in my drafts and i'M SO SORRY PIGEON FORGIVE ME}#{I hope this was worth the wait...}

“I have lived a life. My only regret is that you didn’t get to live yours.“ - Temnadolya (Arvis)

@temnadolya -- Arvis

He has always known that, during times when they are left alone, there was a risk that this man– his father– would bring up what could not be ushered in the presence of others without creating some sort of horrific scandal. Shoulders tense when he speaks, shooting up an amount so slight, but enough to force the rest of the archbishop’s body to act accordingly– to remain rigid, even as his head turns to look over at the older man. What right has he to speak of things like that, after all these years? What right has he to feign care when there have been ample opportunities to display such a thing that have been ignored? He cannot read Arvis– he cannot tell if the words he speaks are genuine, or ones that the emperor feels obliged to say–, and yet, Saias knows he cannot leave his father in silence. Even if the act of speaking to him is enough to make the archbishop wish that he could hide himself away.

“…I have lived mine,”

He remarks, his tone neither gentle nor cold, but instead devoid of all emotion– hollow, though still clinging to the natural softness that refuses to leave the tactician’s voice. Now, the younger man’s body turns around properly, and pale hands clutching onto a tome only tighten their hold, turning his knuckles a whiter shade of pale. Of course his father would assume that, and while Saias would like to believe that Arvis bears good intentions with his words, they cannot help but leave a slightly bitter taste in his mouth. No– he has lived his own life; it has merely been shaped by the mistakes of those around him, as well as his own. It has not been peaceful, it has not been joyous– oftentimes, the archbishops wonders if he shall ever feel true happiness once more–, but it has still been a life. It has still been his own life.

“Perhaps it has not been to your vision… or you simply have not seen enough of it to think so… but I have.”

Perhaps that is too harsh, even for him. When the words escape from Saias’ lips, part of him wishes that he had taken the time to make them kinder. Yet the other, the more spiteful half, does not see why his father deserves any ounce of kindness from him, effectively silencing the tactician for a handful of moments, and leaving him to suffocate in the ever-tense air between the two of them. Perhaps, to some degree, they are both afraid of saying something well meant, that simply voices itself as something colder or partially insulting when looked at from a certain point of view. In that regard, they might be alike. He forces his expression to soften, sparing Arvis once last glance before turning his attention back to the other books within the large, ornate office.

“…You… need not lament over it.”

#✟ ⊱⦃ ❝ɪғ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏғ ɢᴏᴅ… ᴛʜᴇɴ sᴏ ʙᴇ ɪᴛ.❞ ⏤ {ic.} ⦄⊰ ✟#temnadolya #{Arvis.}#✟ ⊱⦃ ❝❞ ⏤ {verse: peri-Thracia.} ⦄⊰ ✟#{do you have any idea how excited i am to finally have arvis interactions again}

@valflame replied to your post:

son let me play a wholesome game of volleyball with you

“...So be it. Stand on the opposing side-- with your face as my target, there is no way that I shall lose against you. You will lose, or walk away feeling an amount of pain similar to the sort I shoulder every second of each day.”

#✟ ⊱⦃ ❝ɪғ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏғ ɢᴏᴅ… ᴛʜᴇɴ sᴏ ʙᴇ ɪᴛ.❞ ⏤ {ic.} ⦄⊰ ✟#valflame #{crack tag}#{Arvis.}

@valflame replied to your post:

:,(

“Do not look at me like that-- you know what you have done to deserve this,”

#✟ ⊱⦃ ❝ɪғ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏғ ɢᴏᴅ… ᴛʜᴇɴ sᴏ ʙᴇ ɪᴛ.❞ ⏤ {ic.} ⦄⊰ ✟#valflame #{crack tag}#{Arvis.}#{saias vc: you come onto my best friend's team and expect me to suddenly be okay with you??}