♡ // the pitch is fun as hell lets fuck up a perfectly good kid queen
WHAT WOULD OUR MUSES' CHILD BE LIKE?・accepting!
THEY WILL KNOW HIM AS THE SILENT SUCCESSOR.
"yeah, I've seen him around the town square before. I just... ah, I wouldn't advise approaching the boy. he doesn't respond well to... uhm, anything really. my daughter tried to befriend him the other day and he hadn't said a word to her, just glared at her from beneath his hood. hm, we cannot deny our services to him, though, as he pays well for a number of our items." ━━━ VILLAGEWOMAN STOREOWNER, about ???
IN-GAME PROFILE,
CLASS: Fell Child
VERSION: specializes in TOMES, emphasizing MAGIC growth and high RESISTANCE, though not yet unlocking the ability to transform and utilize BREATH weapons
DESCRIPTION.
the last son of Lord Sombron, Zephia's biological offspring though fathered by her partner, Denning. while he prefers silence to the bustling commotion of social settings, it is not uncommon to find him traversing through a village or two to complete a task from his mother. however, be wary upon approaching him, as the only language he knows is that of bared teeth and the unrecognized effects of solitude. he, too, has taken to following in the silent image of that who he knows his father to be.
APPEARANCE,
as a child of Sombron, his strongest genes are those of his biological father's. bone-white hair that is often trimmed just above his shoulders, parted only in his bangs. daily, he braids the front side-tresses and lets them grow longer than the rest of his hair. his eyes, unlike both his mother and father, are a pale golden glow, more alike the irises of Denning, though there is no trace of blood shared between the two. there is a lack of Mage Dragon blood in him and, thus, he was born without horns, though he frequently wonders about which shape of horns would look best on him.
apparel is a factor of appearance he took to Denning to follow as example. cloaks and hoods are his preferred, even inside the safety of his home. many assume that it is because of the wealth of knives that can be hidden under the cloth but, in truth, it is simply because it keeps him warm. by gathering his cloak and robes around him, his unnaturally high body temperature heightens and allows him to sleep peacefully in colder weather; with his house being high up in the mountains, this proves more than useful.
to the surprise of his parents, he was born with an unusual birthmark on his cheek, one that startled Zephia nearly into a blind rage. though the anger came from the memory of a Hound under her care, whom she abandoned for motherhood, her son assumed that the fury was because of its ugliness and, thus, he holds his head at an odd tilt whenever he does not have a hood, always facing his parents with his bare cheek rather than his marked one.
PERSONALITY,
highly aggressive and volatile; it does not take much to ignite his penchant for blood. however, he is unsure where this rage comes from, uncertain if his lack of control is strong enough to cause such a reaction. thus, to keep from snapping at others, he does not speak. after watching how easily Denning yields to his mother, he has followed the same pattern in the hopes of appeasing her. if someone as great as Denning is susceptible to Zephia's words, then it must mean that her words are truth. and the truth is what he listens to.
likewise, the lack of social contact for most of his younger years has detached him fully from the world. when a human approaches him, he is unsure of how to properly react. the paranoia of his true bloodline being revealed startles him into silence, awkwardly standing in place until the human leaves him be. if not, he retaliates with anger, shielding his fear until it shapes itself into a weapon.
beneath Denning's teachings, he has learned curiosity and frequently asks his father to answer plenty of his questions. Denning is an inspirational figure to him, so he took to mimicking his mannerisms until they became a comfort. thankfully, Zephia seems to not mind this habit, else she'd have locked her son away until he forgot who her partner was.
HOUSEHOLD DYNAMIC,
there is no question that the head of the household is Zephia, with her son second in the hierarchy and, Denning, at the bottom. however, time has made this hierarchy of power well-known throughout the family and none wish to divert from it. despite this, Denning still hopes to have a part in his son's life, no matter how little of a presence this is. to him, his duty is that to protect his son.
as a result of the submission of Denning to Zephia's mindset, their son has no person he can confide in when the pressure of home begins to burden him. his blood as Sombron's last son must be kept secret from the rest of the world, lest the Fell Church and bad, bad dragons try to take him away from his mother; as were her words, and he wholly trusts her, no matter if he has yet to hear of another dragon that is not her.
he is a Fell Dragon and, thus, should adhere to the lessons and rusted tomes Zephia sets before him, but always, always, he cannot help but bend easier to the gentle teachings of Denning's lord. he has seen neither Sombron nor Nergal, but soon, he thinks, he will have to choose one to give his servitude to. but for now, the thought scares him, and he is fine with the weight of two expectations heavy on his shoulders.
QUOTES,
??? about DENNING:
"my father..." a pause, silence would fill throat for a moment until he swallowed it and turned his cheek, "he is not around often, but i miss him a lot. his cloak is... i made my own copy."
??? about ZEPHIA:
"mother does all she can for me and yet, i cannot help but feel like i... i am not enough... but she loves me. she tells me everyday, once i finish my work. as long as i turn my cheek." his bottom lip trembled. "she will only kiss the bare one."
ZEPHIA about ???:
"he has a long way to come, in many aspects of who is he. when i teach him about the history of the fell church, he does not retain much of the information." a sigh, her gaze became dark. "but he speaks of a lord nergal, though he will not reveal where he heard this name. no worries, i will make him."
ZEPHIA about DENNING:
"he is useful, though hardly receptive to the affection i offer him. handling him has become difficult, but i'd hate to rid him when my son is still so young. hm-hm, time will do it for me."
DENNING about ???:
"this child is to be 'cared' for." written as easily as the want forms in his mind. "so long as he will have me, that will be my calling."
DENNING about ZEPHIA:
curt, but not assertive. "allow me to have purpose in this."
♡ // ephidel would want me to send you this i think
from here!
name: shanda
gender: agender (people seem to default to they or she. they don't mind)
class: arch knight > fe4 style bow knight
how did this happen. do not ask andrei he does not know. i don't think his brain has stopped blue screening since this child came into his life. somehow they have a decent father-child relationship in spite of that.
being half-human, it can be assumed that she has blood. does she have ullr blood??? andrei hasn't gone through the testing process for her. i think he's afraid to, because doing so would unlock the lore of her existence that he feels he is not meant to know. her bow skills are excellent. no one complains.
quiet and unassuming on the surface, there is actually a vast and varied font of thoughts in that head of theirs. overly logical yet undeniably human in nature, little of it is communicated to the outside world, perhaps by choice, and when they do so, sign language, rather than speaking or writing (though they are capable of both) is their preferred means of communication
andrei learns sign language for them, when he did not for denning, even though they demonstrate the same understanding of normal spoken speech that their parent does, and (though very rarely) does speak (and has one singular, androgynous voice that has no issue producing speech when they do)
she enjoys spending time with both parents, and seems to adapt quickly to the same hobbies they have. steeds tend to be wary of her in the beginning, but eventually come to trust her, and she has her own as a bow knight. her 'favorite' hobby, if indeed there is one, seems to be reading, and she is very good at summarizing the main details of any book within a page of paper. if any student needs the cliffsnotes version of any textbook, she is the one to come to
appears immune to the elements, but likes cozy things regardless. wears a soft scarf around their neck in any and all weather conditions, even into battle, and while they will replace it when it is damaged beyond repair, they strive to maintain each one as long as possible with care
they may interact with the world in a odd way, but in the end, they are reasonably confident that they are loved, and love in turn
The world tips as he passes by an array of tables, a strange stasis taking his balance, his limbs, his synthetic breath. There is a strange jamming of time, not unlike those days spent in nothingness upon the Dread Isle, and that alone sets a strange spike of static through his chest —
And then it passes, and suddenly, his body is left to its own devices — It is his instinct to collapse like an unattended marionette, but he stands firm, mindful of the small plate of various cheeses and crackers pushed into his hands.
Take a break, his elemental seems to croon — Not that he understands. Unfortunately, that does not seem to be in his future either, for the morph just so happens to not be where he was moments prior, instead perched upon the arm of a plush bench, next to...
Ah. Marquess Ostia. He no longer has any orders to kill the other, but it is jarring to see the lordling at such proximity.
... What to do? Sitting stiff a moment longer, Denning blinks owlishly, before silently offering the man a cube of fragrant gouda, stuck on a toothpick, as greeting and offering.
The night is going surprisingly well,
until it isn't.
He's still not quite accustomed to those bratty elementals' shenanigans. Why earth? Is it that he's not rebelled enough of late? Quite frankly, Hector's got enough of the codgers back home, never mind this stiff peacock overhead.
And so he is, for a moment, sat and enjoying a spot of respite.
The elemental can't begrudge him that much, right?
Hairs at the nape of his neck prick suddenly, and it feels like he's been burned - not by flame, but by something too cold to touch, a primal fury born of instinct.
"You."
The monster who'd led the charge during the infiltration of Ostia back then. Hector recalls the stare, sharp yet empty, as mockery of life drained from the creature's body.
Impregnable Castle Ostia, all had said. Untouchable... no more.
Because of this freak and its master.
"You...!"
He's on his feet at once, Denning's collar in his grip and
WHAM.
The wall gets a lovely taste of morph, up close and personal.
That the Fang had somehow crawled back to life from the gutters of the underworld was one thing, but this, this was too much.
Already, he feels Earth's roving gaze looming toward them. Better be quick then.
a kiss after grabbing the other’s arm and pulling them back close
(this one too, a human. this one too, a knight. this one, too, elibean, making him both antithesis and goal. denning has watched him bother others incessantly with pleasantries and poetry, only one of which she can understand, but that other component is par beyond the morph.
an archer's hand, an archer's grip takes hold of him, pulls him in with all the strength needed to draw a longbow as they pass eachother in the hall. make me understand.)
“Y-you… Lord Nergal!”
The messenger arrives. Sain isn’t quite used to having his arm pulled back like that. More often than not it is being slapped or pushed or, in some cases, cut until it backs away—unwanted and unloved. Woe is he, of course, but that the morph is among the few to take him into their embrace… He has no words. Is it a trick? A deceitful tactic used to worm their way into his army? Is he to become the same kind of slave Brendan Reed was made to be, enthralled by the perfect form of Nergal’s creation?
Hell yeah he is. A knight never says no to a kiss!
Denning certainly takes the lead on this one, but Sain is no stranger to picking up his own slack. He, strangely--oddly--finds himself leaning into the kiss. That archer never looked half bad and, hell, it's practically his duty to hand out endearment. His hand hesitates, fingers wavering, but they dive past the point of no return when they clutch Denning's neck.
You aren't leaving until you experience all that is Sain, says his lips, says the heat hitched on his breath. There is no 'testing the waters' with a knight who takes every act of affection to heart. And perhaps, a silent admittance is made. That in Denning, he sees a bit of himself. Day after day he toils repeating the same flowery words and empty gestures, throwing a rock at a wall as he attempts to woo women, and a pebble into a canyon as he attempts to fill the true void in his heart. Denning, too, lacks a father's love. Has no one to come home to. Are they not owed this shared embrace?
Once he feels he has firmly seized control of the kiss, he lets it go. Slowly their mouths separate, and a light giggle spills from Sain's.
"Who would have guessed... Love could reach even your icy heart?"
She pulled her skirts back in deference, crossing her legs to curtsey. Though she may have been a princess— here, she was merely a student seeking further mastery over the skills she sorely lacked. (It was far too easy to note her flaws once she reassessed her performance during the Battle of Eagle and Lion... To her own credence, Nanna knew that the swiftest way to understand growth was through failure. She never thought that was painless, though.) That much was necessary if she had any intention of leading their country one day. "You were referred to by the other professors, so I thought to come by and ask for some assistance with the bow."
"I will admit, I have also seen that you're quite the research enthusiast when I pass you in the library." Her admission coincided with a sheepish smile, as she tucked back some loose blonde locks behind her ear. "I've been hoping to strike up conversation, myself! What better way than to train, hm?"
"...Would you find time for me?" The man was quite difficult to read, really, and more difficult still, as she met his golden gaze. She wondered if one could really bottle liquid gold like that, made to come off strangely translucent like sea glass. Musing to herself, Nanna smiled, knowing it would do her no good to press too deeply unto smoke-like glass. "I would gladly exchange anything I have at my disposal to you. Be it time or place."
Denning feels a draw towards the library; A similar force to how they gravitate towards sound, how silence repels them. Perhaps that natural voracity for words (one of few things in their nature) is what drives them out of their room in the off-hours to linger in the library like a spectre, sitting deathly still on what would be an uncomfortable stool for most for hours at a time; Poring over research journals en masse in a corner far enough to not drive others away, but close enough to hear the subtle shuffle of paper, the hushed and unhushed discussion of academic material, projects, menial things.
It is during one of these unnecessary little trips outside of their room that the knight spots a faintly familiar head of green hair leaving the library. Golden eyes follow the girl, unwavering; They have seen her before. It is not often they were snuck into the Black Fang in place of one of their kin, but that out-of-place shock of grass-green is memorable enough to be unmistakeable; Less stand-out during the assault upon Ostia, but present nonetheless.
They had no orders to harm her, and their master lies silent. Their bow is pledged to another, even if the hand to guide them is yet clumsy in their wielding them.
So, they do the polite thing to do when recognising another person, like their knight-tutor had taught them; They lift a hand in greeting. Their own short ebony hair is as unmistakeable as their eyes, but far from unique, more telling to their nature rather than their exact identity. They do not know if she will recognise them in turn. It hardly matters. They recognise her, after all.
Another hand comes up. Hesitates. Points at the book she is cradling. 'light reading?' they ask.
Keeping up with the monastery's workload is no easy task, but Nino had promised she'd work hard and do well, so it's only natural she'd have to put in the extra effort at the library most days! That said, most of the library's contents are still impossible for her to decipher, and the books she chooses can only reflect that limitation. A travel log is in her hands this evening, its pages dominated by beautiful, colorful illustrations in an artist's loving hands, with short descriptions underneath that she hopes will be within her grasp. She's about to head out with the book when —
"...!" She's learned, by now, not to automatically flinch at the sight of golden eyes, even though the sudden appearance of a figure right outside the door still catches her off guard. But the face that greets her isn't that of Ephidel, similar as they look at first glance. No, this person's hair is shorter, and there's an odd air of familiarity about them, even though Nino can't exactly place why. She hesitantly raises a hand in return, taking the few steps to close the distance between them, blinking up at the other. A few seconds pass in silence, but there isn't any clear recognition in their expression, nor do they speak.
Instead, their hands raise, palms out in a movement that seems deliberate, all without speaking a single word. The immediate meaning is lost on Nino, but she takes a guess to their intentions.
"Do you... want the book?" Mindful to keep her voice down, since they're still outside the library, Nino looks down at the tome in her hands. She supposes she doesn't have to read this one specifically. "You can have it if you'd like," she says with a smile that's only a little timid, holding out the tome, "I can go look for another one."
(it would not do for anythiing to hinder her view of the battlefield. pale digits sweep the tactician's fringe aside, the other wiping up the blood trickling down her forehead.
their own headband is pulled loose from their locks, pressed instead into mark's. a single word in hunting-hand, soldier-sign, for the battle still rages, and time is short:
'watch'.)
Mark lies dazed on the battlefield.
Someone had bothered to come to the back and attack her, send her to the ground with a strike at her head she hadn’t been able to dodge. Split skin gushes with blood, the warmth sticking to her face, the only sensation she has any awareness of.
And then, a hand on her shoulder, a brush of her bangs, a name rests on her lips already but the hand, gentle as it may be, is far too cold for that. Reddish eyes swivel up, slowly, to meet gold, shining as ever.
She sucks in a breath, braces a hand beneath her, but makes no effort to get up - they hold no weapon to her throat, but instead bind her wound with their own headband, staining the white fabric red with the heat of it.
Watch, they command, and she nods, weakly signing agreement as she pushes herself up to sitting. She, in turn, raises her hands, responding in kind - “Stay?”
a kiss after one muse has killed for the other // platonic obv. the sibtuation (tm)
(hunter meet hunter. enemy falls to blade. dragon remains hale, as a student ought to be.
still, a line of blood runs from nils' temple, and on that the knight zeroes in. distrusting her own senses in the fresh warp of fading quintessence, denning instead grasps the boy's head and pulls him in, face pressed into blue locks to determine, by temperature, by resonance: is it his?
(it is no embrace between blood-kin. but it seems close enough.))
It was a mistake, a single moment of weakness. His dragonstone was taken and he was put into a cage to be shipped off to goddess knows where. With no weapons, no way to protect himself, he was at their mercy. The cramped iron bars, the rope around his wrists, the blindfold and the fear coursing through his veins, it was too familiar. Nightmares of being trapped on the island, contemplating his own death to protect his kin…
Then the screams began, multiple of them in quick succession. Something warm splashed onto him. He couldn’t see what it was, but judging by the copper scent as well as the fading quintessence of the person previously guarding him, it wasn’t hard to figure out it was blood. The iron door creaked as it was forced open, and cold hands methodically undid his blindfold and bindings.
It was then that Nils came face to face with his savior. And it made sense now why he couldn’t sense a singular source of quintessence. The person standing in front of him was one of his father’s creations. A symbol that previously represented his end, a danger that could bring the world to its knees, now was his guardian angel. Despite the both of them being covered in blood, Denning.. held him. While normally he’d have his reservations, the relief that flooded through his body combined with his exhaustion made it so he did nothing but lean in and reciprocate the embrace, holding onto the taller figure tightly.
Then, he felt the other’s lips touch his forehead in a surprisingly tender gesture. There was a strange gentility in Denning’s actions, and though they were not quite like a human, it was still a far cry from the monstrous puppets he’s seen Morphs as for so long.
