#* scriptura.

[valiorem-blog]

hamletsboy.

          “                           hurts.  “      Legs  are  unceremoniously  abandoned  on  an  otherwise  unoccupied  lap  with  sluggish  intent.  A  fine  expression  is  pulled  into  an  unapologetic  pout.  The  demand     (     massage  them     )     goes  without  saying.

A SMIRK, THE NECKLACE bearing his loyalty’s symbol shifting against his breast-bone as he maneuvers himself into a better position, hands moving to thin legs before Noctis can even voice his concern, proper.

❛ Tch, very well, ❜ Not as though he's capable of denying Noctis most anything -- especially not something as simple as a massage; skilled fingers find their mark, kneading an aching joint with quiet expertise. ❛ I don’t suppose this will cease your usage of expletives. Not that I am asking you to stop, by all means, do continue. ❜ He likes the way it sounds, coming from that battle-weary voice. Almost...empyrean, in spite of its crass meaning.

[valiorem-blog]

AFFECTION OPENLY DISPLAYS in the lilt of his mellifluous intonation, his approach toward the throne gradual and measured, indicative of a hint of playfulness kept for this age --bathed in light. The audacity of a mere chamberlain to approach the monarch of the territory; others may gasp, but he forges on with the knowledge that he stands as far more to the other than his occupation. Through many a trial and tribulation, they have supported each other. Now, he has the right, more than anyone else, to look to his king as familiar. As, perhaps, more than just that, while another in his position could only have dreamt. 

    ( And perhaps it is a wild desire, unfettered;               he cares not for the consequences, only the time he has left in this mad world. )

       “You’ve kept busy, majesty. No time to spare for a conversation?” 

[valiorem-blog]

( @clairais )

WIDE OPEN SKIES GREET the early risers, an attractive forget-me-not blue that cannot possibly herald an impending doomscape of eternal night. While training ensues and good-natured jibes follow soon thereafter each clash of weaponry ( Gladio is particularly keen on preparing Noctis for the worst this morn, as the weather may allow ) the aide-de-camp’s attentions turn to the latest addition to the light’s retinue.       

“My curiosity leads me to inquire, if I may -- might there be any particular reason as to why you decided to join the ranks of his majesty’s glaives, Lightning?”

[valiorem-blog]

( @hamletsboy )

APERTURES IN THE OVERARCHING journey oft keeps the aide-de-camp awake at night, and innumerable are the questions that run through the veritable fortress of knowledge that is his mind. Knowledge, a double-edged sword; without it, one cannot compose tactics and predict the enemy -- with an abundance of it, a man can never truly rest. He cannot make it a habit to surmise, for he believes a conclusion supported by proper evidence is what reigns over all else. All conclusions and all evidences, however, lead to the same ending. One that he cannot approve of in good conscience, as it will rend to shreds this bond that only solidifies further the more time passes. They run and fight on borrowed moments and his silent plea remains silent, for what can he, achingly human, possibly do against the thrall of almighty deities? 

Duty is promise and promise is duty, even if it leads a lamb to slaughter, correct? No. But what use is there in rage, if fate is preordained? 

“Noct.” The campfire and distant sounds of laughter from their companions does little to ease him. “Ebony?” An offer that is a weak attempt at shrouding his restlessness, for even the brew he considers superior to elixir itself can do no good, here.