#dellarosula

[dukemeropide]

quite the bargain for you, i must say!

"Wow, a visit from the President of the Spina di Rosula herself. This business with the intergalactic pop star must be pretty important for you to set aside personal issues to come all the way down here. Why don't you join me for my afternoon tea and we'll discuss Miss Robin's freedom?"

(45 minutes later)

"... Long story short, you'll have to take it up with the court."

"Thanks for the twenty."

[huntersoath]

"I'm not scared. Not of you."

"Today's duel was quite dramatic, did you hear? A huge change in pace, everything's been so boring lately..." A woman speaks in a hushed tone, excitement flashing in the depths of her eyes.

"I did, actually. I wish I had been there. I feel like I really missed out on the drama." Another woman, slightly shorter, held an umbrella over the both of their heads in an attempt to shield them from the light patter of rain.

"I heard his family was in the audience. When it was all done and over with, his wife rushed up and had to be escorted away by the Gardes. I feel a little bad for his son, though... He kept begging for Daddy to get up."

"Seriously? That sounds like something straight out of an Opera, you know. Still a shame that I didn't go."

"That Duelist, Clorinde... She's really scary! I wonder how many people she's killed? And she doesn't even bat an eye!"

"I don't know, I try not to think too much about it..."

Chewing at the inside of her cheek, Clorinde opts to take a longer route home, the detour specifically chosen to avoid any of the populated areas of the Court. ---- "He wouldn't yield." The normal mask of impenetrable calm on Clorinde's façade had begun to crack and crumble under the pressure of her words. She's meant to be a pillar of strength and reliability, her every action and every word measured and deliberate. But as with everyone else, there are bad days. There's days where it's harder to keep a straight face, where it's harder to suppress the feelings that threaten to swallow her whole; when she's presented with the past so plainly, replaying the final moments of Callas Caspar over and over and over in the back of her mind until the only noise she can hear is Navia's scream of anguish. "He knew he would die. He knew it. And as always, I made the conscious decision to do my job, as he made his. There's... no justice to be found in tearing families apart."

Truthfully, it's rare to have such a second guess about her profession. She's always understood the implications of her role, and for the Fontainian public to refer to her as a glorified executioner is not entirely wrong. The blood on her hands has seared into her skin until Clorinde can no longer remember what it felt like before she took a man's life-- there are times at night where she wakes up panting, nails digging into her skin with the sole intention of scraping the memory of red splashed across her palms. There are times where she feels as if she is drowning, where she dreams of a time where on the opposite end of the dueling right, there lies Navia; unmoving, run through with Absolution's blade, and the life essence of another Caspar smeared across her shirt, her skin, her blade. She's not talking about today's duel anymore.

Clorinde's hands are balled into fists so tight that her knuckles run white; they grasped and clawed at the fabric of her skirt as she hunched forward slightly, staring at nothing in particular on the floor. A tremor slowly spread to her arms, and then her shoulders, almost as if she was making a poor attempt to carry a great weight that her body was wholly incapable of bearing. "I don't know how you do this. How you choose to keep me close." The words were blurted without care, far before she has a chance to truly think about it. Yet despite the primal fear that set into her gut, she raised her gaze to lock with the other's-- violet eyes appearing cold and beyond reach, a stark contrast to how she normally presented herself to Navia. She trusted her, implicitly and without hesitation, yet... Navia kept a lion in the den far too close to her to be deemed safe. Clorinde's fangs dripped with blood, and she is beloved by the public, yet only when she is securely caged behind the boundaries of the dueling ring. When everyone is safe from her deadly claws, keeping their distance as she strides in circles around her prey. The stares she gets and the hushed whispers she hears in her wake confirmed the thought on a daily basis. "I'm not scared. Not of you." Navia's tone was softer than she'd ever heard it before, and Clorinde's brows knit as her mouth began to shape around some protest, awful and devastating. The tremble in her lower lip gave away her train of thought, threatening to succumb to the trench that never failed to drag her deep into its depths. Her voice wavered as she spoke, coming out as more of a choked reply than anything else. "I killed him, Navia."

Her eyes, typically steady and discerning, have lost their usual sharpness-- where her breathing normally remained steady, her chest began to rise and fall with a subtle, uneven rhythm. Clorinde felt her eyes begin to water, and she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek in a futile attempt to force her tone to remain even and calm. She's highly aware that she didn't deserve this treatment. Navia never had to allow her back into her life, but she did. She did. Perhaps she shouldn't have. Quickly, Clorinde covered her face as the tears began to fall-- and this might be the first time Navia has ever seen her cry, ever since Callas's death and since the seemingly irreparable damage to their relationship. She doesn't want to cry, she doesn't deserve to cry for something like this-- because ultimately, it's her who threw the wrench into the cogs of their relationship, even if she had no other choice but to honor Callas's wish to die by her hands. It's her who drove her blade into the chest of today's opponent, and into the chest of the only man who had treated her like a daughter. "I killed him. I'm sorry, Navia."

She repeated the apology almost as if it were a sort of mantra, curling in on herself as her words are broken by the occasional sharp breath punching through her lungs in the same way a bullet would. If it was Navia holding the gun, she'd take that bullet. It was only fitting, after all, for a daughter to properly avenge her father's killer- perhaps that was the justice she deserved all along.

@dellarosula

[sweepingthunder]

[CUP PONG] - From across the dimly lit table, Navia flashes her opponent a wide grin. If their previous encounters are any indication, this will be the nation's least eventful game in perhaps ever. Not that she minds, frankly. The little ball twirls between her fingers as she lines up her shot and-

-it bounces harmlessly to the floor.

"Seems my luck hasn't changed since our last game, Mr. Jing Yuan."

"Quite the contrary. I recall your aim being rather precise last time we met." Tossing the small ball upwards, it lands gently in his palm. As Navia whiffs her shot, a contemplative shake of his head. "Or perhaps, you've given it to someone else..."

As he takes aim, his eyes narrow. The ball whistles as it soars through the air, and eventually, a gentle plunk as it lands easily into cup. A smirk, as a few more balls are shot and land into the cups of Fonta. "Such as myself. Drink are on me, lady Navia." After succeeding in 4 shots, he misses his 5th, and cracks his knuckles. Already off to a great start.

[dukemeropide]

Fading in Time

2024 Birthday drabble | gifts received from @huntersoath, @iustitians, @fanfaire, @dellarosula

(Wriothesley character story spoilers)

Wriothesley could count the number of birthdays he’d celebrated on one hand. The very concept of them had become, by now, the stuff of fantasy, consigned to the place in his memories occupied by fables spoken by ordinary animals and humans that could fly all on their own. In other words, something for innocent-minded children with the kinds of well-adjusted families that only existed in fiction. He had been that, once.

For a long while, it had been hard for him to reconcile the happiness and love he knew conceptually to be a part of celebrating one’s birthday with what he had witnessed to be little different than throwing a party for a lamb set for slaughter the very next day. Three of his siblings had disappeared before he realized the truth, but he had eyes, and he had ears, so he denied himself the excuse of age. He should have known, even as young as he was. 

Cake tasted like dirt from that day onward. His own birthdays passed in hazes of fury and grief. It had been someone’s birthday when he laid on the floor of his parents’ manor, drenched in their blood, choking on his own. That had been the last one, he’d made sure of it. And it was, for a while.

The Fortress of Meropide had hammered him down into an insignificant number in the years that followed, but he’d come to enjoy the anonymity. The fools who celebrated their birthdays down here might as well have put a sign up asking to be robbed, or beaten up, or both. Wriothesley had taken advantage of his fair share of fools. It was either that, or risk going hungry in the dog-eat-dog world under the sea. It was their own faults, he reasoned, and pretended like it wasn’t the resentment that festered just skin-deep during those first few years. Even so, the Head Nurse always had something for him on the same day every year, usually little more valuable than a piece of buttered toast, so that Wriothesley didn’t catch on until he’d been conditioned to expect it.

One year, as he sat on a cot in the empty infirmary while Sigewinne, humming a little song, poured peppermint tea into a nondescript cup, he realized just how talented the Fortress’ Head Nurse was.

Birthdays became easier to stomach after that, although he was still a prisoner of no importance until the day he scared the previous administrator from his post. Rumors followed the fearsome Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, among which was a distaste for birthdays, and yet he’d find his office collecting little trinkets, wrapped boxes, desserts, and a dozen or so hand-drawn stickers every year from then on.

There is far more clutter this year, even if “clutter” might be too harsh a word for the gifts and letters carefully delivered to his desk. The Duke has tried to clear space to work, to no avail, so he stands over the spread with a look that can be described as none other than fond exasperation. Little blue, pink, and yellow stickers speckle the tall back of his chair, and a shark sits on his shoulder. He’s left them all for the occasion, because he knows it’s futile to remove them today. More will soon take their place.

Where to start, he thinks, and his eyes land on a neat, no-nonsense signature he recognizes at once. Clorinde knows his preferences well by now, for how often they trade bets over life’s trivialities. The box and the thoughtful letter accompanying it showcase the champion duelist’s pragmatism, but it’s the new gloves that capture Wriothesley’s attention. He lifts one from the box to try, and it fits perfectly. She’d always had a good eye, but it seemed she knew him even better than he thought. With a soft laugh, he carefully returns the glove to its pair. A duel would be in order if he wanted to break them in, so he makes a note to invite her to the Pankration ring next time he sees her.

Alongside this box is a smaller one in beautiful wrapping, topped with a letter signed unmistakably by the Iudex’s precise hand, with the Iudex’s characteristic apologies. Wriothesley reads through it with an amused smile and then with the shake of his head, sets it aside to open the gift he knows deserves no such humble preamble. The tea within is wholly new to his collection, which lacks much of anything from Natlan, and when he opens the lid, out rolls the scent of bonfires and warm spices. It’s no legal codex, certainly, but it's at least something more practical. 

Wriothesley thinks he might prepare himself a cup now and contemplate the rest of his cleaning project, but the massive iron doors down below suddenly rumble open.

”Another delivery for you, Your Grace,” calls the courier. “From Lady Furina.”

”Bring it up,” he directs, studying his desk like one might a puzzle. Where to fit a new box…

But it’s not a box that arrives at the top of the stairs. Instead, tray after tray of cakes, cookies, macarons, and other finger treats file into his office, which the Duke stands by to watch helplessly. Only when his tea table has been covered in a spread fit for a small party does the courier finally leave. What has he done to earn such extravagance from the former Archon herself? he wonders, and, still bewildered, approaches one of towering gift baskets to inspect what else she might have sent. There, he finds the gilded tickets for a show at the Opera Epiclese nestled in the filling, as if it were the real gift hidden under layers and layers of the most ornate paper one could find.

Another knock at the door. Wriothesley quickly slips the tickets into his breast pocket and goes to the top of the stairs to send back whatever else might be on its way up.

”Just leave it down—“ Eyebrows raise with surprised pleasure at the sight of a familiar, albeit entirely unexpected face. 

“Now, to what do I owe a personal visit from Madame President?” he asks cheekily, following her to his desk to clear a space for the box she carries. It’s the result of the bet he’d technically lost, as it turns out, which Navia sets in front of him like a mafia boss presenting a suitcase full of mora.

”Let’s see what you’ve got here…” Leaning down for a better look, Wriothesley picks through the selection carefully, inspecting each tin as if searching gemstones for flaws. Lifting one in the middle from its bed of velvet, he spies the little note hidden beneath. If Clorinde is straight and to the point, Navia is anything but. With a soft huff, Wriothesley sets it back down.

"To be honest, I can’t remember if I’d tried any of these during my trip to Liyue last year. I guess the only thing to do is to have a taste test.” He shrugs his shoulders like it’s a matter of course, then flashes Navia a smirk. “Care to join me? I have a whole spread of desserts I need to figure out what to do with, too.”

So he sets his kettle to boil, because he expects that she won't say no. And after years and years of his birthday passing without any fanfare, Wriothesley thinks that, for once, it wouldn't be so bad celebrating it. Especially with someone else.

- -

He'd need a second hand to count them now.

[immovablewill]

🎲 >:D

⁀➴ Kiss Roulette ! 37. A kiss to the back of the neck

“Do you trust me?”

Ever since the Demoiselle had proven her concerns wrong, Sara has made it a point to show that Navia does, indeed, have her full trust. Or, well, at least most of it. Still, some things are harder to believe than others. So, when Navia claims her umbrella can hold her weight during their tour around Inazuma, Sara responds with a sceptical hum, her arms crossed as she calmly responds, “It certainly cannot.”

“Lady Navia, wait—!” But perhaps she should have made a show of believing her, if only to avoid this. Sara’s heart nearly stops as she watches Navia, in all of her brilliant confidence, wave and call out her name before stepping off the cliff’s edge, her umbrella snapping open as if it would actually slow her descent.

Surely it can’t…!

Not wanting to leave it to chance, Sara rushes forward, shoving past stunned onlookers as she sprints towards where Navia should land, eyes locked on the Demoiselle’s descending figure the whole while. The umbrella sways with the wind, and Sara’s stomach lurches.

She won’t make it in time—no, she has to make it in time!

With a final burst of speed, Sara reaches the spot just as Navia’s feet touch the ground. The umbrella closes shut, Navia stumbles once she lands, and still drunk from adrenaline, Sara lunges forward without hesitation, arms wrapping tightly around the other’s waist as they tumble to the ground. She quickly twisted to cushion the fall, a groan leaving her as her back met the grass with a soft thud.

Sara’s hold loosens slightly, and she’s just about to ask Navia if she’s alright when she hears her snicker—her shoulders trembling next, head tilting back the moment she finally bursts into a fit of laughter, light and bubbly, like the sound of silver bells on a Christmas morning.

What an utterly carefree woman indeed…

The general could only but sigh in exchange, her own laugh escaping in an airy, breathless exhale. All the tension and worry abandons her body at once, and in her relief, she buries her face in the crook of Navia’s neck for just a moment, her lips brushing against the skin there—unintentional, but undeniably lingering. The warmth of Navia’s laughter is… contagious, and Sara can’t help but smile, despite herself.

“Yes. Alright,” She finally mumbles, her voice resigned as she pulls back to look at Navia’s radiant smile. “You win, Demoiselle… I shall trust your words without a sliver of doubt from now on.”

[immovablewill]

24. How do they present themselves socially? What distinguishes their “persona” from their “true self”, and what causes that difference?

⁀➴ 42 character development questions! (also asked by @everlastingeccentric)

Kujou Sara presents herself as strict and stoic. A figure of authority who ensures the adherence to order. To the people of Inazuma, she is a symbol of discipline, head always held up high. She is—no, she must be a force to be reckoned with—unflinching even in the face of death.

As a general, she cannot afford to show weakness and doubt. Her role, essentially, has always demanded that she be this paragon of strength: the embodiment of confidence and steadiness, especially in the heat of battle. And it’s a role she has managed to fulfill quite well so far.

Her demeanour may come across as reserved as a result, every word carefully picked and measured, the weight of her responsibilities always weighing heavy in her heart to a point where she doesn’t even allow herself a chance for idle chatter and frivolities, as her every action and words reflects not only that of the Shogunate, but the Kujou Clan as well.

And maybe it’s exactly because she’s carried this pressure and responsibility for so long that Sara can hardly separate herself from it now. Her true self isn’t so easily distinguishable from the persona she has cultivated over the years. The lines between duty and identity have long since blurred, leaving her with little to no room to explore who she might be outside of her role as a general. (And that Kujou Takayuki has essentially isolated her since young has made it even more impossible for Sara to explore herself. So, then, it’s no wonder that Sara lives and breathes for her duty, for it may as well be all that she knows.)

But, really, you needn’t look that closely to find the true Kujou Sara. To know that beneath her sure and stoic persona, she is just like everyone else.

She has yet to figure it out herself, but Sara does often feel lonely. When she watches over Inazuma, she sees its people spend time with their family and friends, gathering together during festivals, laughing and celebrating without a worry in mind.

It’s a sight that heartens her so. The smiles on their faces are the living proof to the peace she has fought for. Yet, amidst the joy and celebration, Sara has always felt like a bystander; a mere observer standing just outside the warmth of the circle.

She has a family, but the idea of embracing them like a child would a parent, or even a sister would an older brother, feels foreign to her. (So she just watches as young children run to their father and mother to be carried, as younger siblings are spoiled by their older siblings rotten, fed with sweets and smothered with presents upon presents.) She remembers everyone’s names, their faces, their roles, even their criminal records and likes and dislikes—but none of it feels right when she tries to imagine herself speaking to them as a friend. (So she’ll always include their titles when she addresses them. Lady Sangonomiya sounds more comfortable to say than just Sangonomiya or Kokomi, and Doctor Baizhu even more so than just Mister Baizhu.)

So do forgive her if her words come across as short and clipped. It’s not that she isn’t interested in conversations, but that she doesn’t know what else to say.

Forgive her if she moves away while everyone else moves in for an embrace or huddle close to chat. Other than the fact that her wings are wide and can be troublesome to others, it’s also that she has never really gotten used to such friendly gestures.

[wandcrlxst]

🎲 !!

Fate has decided...

A kiss in greeting

The otherworldly Traveler was back in Fontaine to take care of some minor business - so obviously she had to drop by the Poisson to visit her dear friend and 'partner'.

Thankfully, the latter is quite easy to spot. How could anyone look past those long, golden locks and the fashionable outfit - complete with outstanding headpiece.

"ーー Navia!"

Her lips curved upwards into a bright smile as she ran up to the taller female before immediately leaning in to place not one, not two, but two kisses on her cheeks, one left and one right.

"...Hm? Did I get it wrong? I thought this was the Fontainian way?"

[cisoriaseams]

🎄 :)

Dancers step in time with the strings and piano. Though Fontaine welcomed the seamstress, these dances were not her own. She found herself sat at some table larger than her, expecting company that Chiori simply did not have. The ballroom flowed naturally, with guests cozied up in fuzzy and warm attire, protection from the cold winds that could not follow them inside. It was only a matter of time before the Inazuman would find herself out.

Exiting out, cold winds bite at exposed skin, yet it is a welcome change to the growing heat inside. It is refreshing compared to the dry, mustiness that claims each new guest. Hands fiddle with a smaller purse, yet she cannot find the carton she sought so desperately in this moment. A glance left, then right, before resignation that there was no smoke. Perhaps it was for the better, a habit she was trying to kick. Such resignation almost fails in the face of a friend.

"Oh, Navia. I didn't realize you would be here..." A glance to the blonde woman's hands, a muted reminder that she needs to quit. Eyes flick back up, and idle conversation takes place. Business, trivial questions that fill the void between them, pleasantries. As Navia enters, Chiori follows, figuring the event is better with a familiar face.

Time seems to fly more freely in proper company. The night drags on, yet each minute feels like a moment, each hour proof that time is relative. Even a dance is saved for the Spina's president.

When it comes time to funnel out and head home, there's almost remorse.

Quiet streets fill with prestige, and then empty almost as quickly. As both stop by the boutique, an appreciative nod, lingering just a little too long. "I appreciate you joining. And you walking me home. These aristocrats play games far too irritating for their own good." Holding her coat closed, reds meet blues. As this contemplation is held, a subtle realization as to that little plant hanging overhead.

Had the winds not beaten red cheeks into the brunette, the embarrassment of desire certainly would. A step forward, lips pressing to Navia, only to step back. "Goodnight, I hope you get home safe," the door closing even quicker than it's swung open.