#insatiabilitics

[decthless-a]

closed starter: @insatiabilitics location: the gardens of elaris keep

All the childish excitement drains from his face as his head whips back to spot Taemris' familiar face, his eyes wide and incredulous, his crumbled form on the grass suddenly aghast; you'd think him not used to the sight of injuries when it could not be further than the truth. "Morvaen—" those plush lips round into a perfect, bewildered 'o', a quiet, soft vowel cushioned against his tongue.

His dainty, bare feet push him off the ground, padding over to the assassin across the vibrant, velvety grass in a rush, dropping all the beautiful flowers he had been collecting, colorful petals scattering about, floating to the ground as he saunters off, doll-like head lolling, fair lashes blinking unwittingly. "Oh, my... what horrors did you endure during my absence? May I not leave you be for even a moment?" the scolding is a soft as a feather plucked of a winter bird, his hand gentle as it reaches for his cheek, molded for the single purpose of cupping, but doing so without touching—he leaves a gap, as if expecting the other to lean, pushed onto his tiptoes to reach him. "Now, what kind of savage would hurt such a beautiful face, mm?" he coos, tucking one of the remaining flowers in his grip still behind the arch of his ear.

"There," a brief flicker of a satisfaction flashes. "Come now... let me take a look." the young Chae ushered, grabbing his hand as though they were children frolicking in a meadow.

[decthless-a]

closed starter for @insatiabilitics

The boy looks every bit an apparition, pale a winter frost, the gauzy veil of his hair blending into the ghastliness of Baeksa to spill out onto floor—the quiet, placid oddity of him. He is scantly clad, freshly showered, silk robes dangling off his shoulders; the room smells like fresh daisies, roses and herbs, and the young lord has his back turned towards the door, moonlight cast over the fair crown of his head as delicate fingers grip an ornate, ancient looking hairbrush, and his hand moves all too gracefully, rhythmically, in a perpetual downward motion, combing through the silken locks of his hair, untangling all the knots into unruly submission. He does not spare the door a glance, but he hears the hinges. His body might be weak, but his senses had always been sharper than most. A lifetime of listening, watching, while confined to your own misery, will do that you.

"So he arrives," a long, dragged exhale fills his lungs, lethargic and bored one, at that. He wishes to make his displeasure known, though he had been the one to summon him, and spares no effort doing so. He despises the thought of being watched—and yet there was little choice, as his parents insisted on his return otherwise. He was not quite ready with this place, or these people, and so... he must endure. Undesirable, but... manageable. "My loyal hound... are you trained, or prone to biting the hands that feeds you?" his hand halts, but still does not glance towards the meddler—an unspoken invitation to approach. "If you behave, perhaps I will feel compelled to take you on a nightly walk tonight," he decides, goading, always goading, and the robes slip fully as he gestures towards the opposite counter near the door, a herbal substance with a sweet, flowery scent resting in a bowl there. "Fetch me my concoction, will you? This whole place smells like smoke. I can hardly stand it."