#luxarrow

[grislyintentions]

@luxarrow : XX Jester, people are dying throughout the cosmos.

AWWW DON'T BE A SOUR PUSS, HORSEY! ALL THE MORE REASON TO LIGHTEN UP AND HAVE SOME FUN!!

[odyniros]

Amphoreus breathes gold in the late afternoon. Warm wind drifts through the palace courtyard carrying the scent of sunlit stone, olive branches, and distant seawater. Lan does not belong in places this gentle. Yet THEY stand there anyway; appearing in a more humanoid form, long white hair spilling down THEIR back like moonlight poured into water. It's not long before The Hunt is met with the protector of the realm's borders. Lan finally glances toward him. Calm. Stern. Completely unreadable. The archer should not be here, THEY know, but … better to ask forgiveness then permission. “Hello, Mydeimos. Are you … well?”

despite knowing how fake it all was in the depths of his mind, mydei still walked the streets of okhema with a calmness and reassurance that in this downtime of peace, he can prepare himself for whatever wave of anarchy comes. but as he walks, he could swear he felt a wave of familiarity hit him when he passes someone, and he turns to see the person he least expects - the embodiment of the hunt. he tilts his head, checking no one was really around before he approaches.

"you're here...? i... i am rather surprised, actually. never have i expected you to see the situation for yourself and not through me. as for how i am... i am rather alright, and yourself, father?"

[ccaptain]

   -record scratch.

   HE DOESN'T WANT A COWBOY HAT? LIKE HIS ROBOHUSBAND?

[odyniros]

“Bone of my bow, I hear whispers on the cosmic winds, a child born of your undying blood and Destruction’s favorite. And yet, not so much as a glimpse offered to me, its grandsire. How bold … or perhaps, how cruel.” >:/

"you think being half-responsible for my offspring, i'd get half the say. no, sadly, all he took was my undying nature and your stubbornness. everything else, the deliverer gave."

[grislyintentions]

Lan stands with their arms crossed over their radiant chest and they feel those millions of bloodshot eyes on their form. They have allowed Yaoshi to approach them without resorting to violence; at least for now. Why do you smile in the face of death, abomination? Lan asks. One day, you will not return. This I promise. ( for Yaoshi )

Promise.

An oath of passion if there ever existed one. 

Draws laughter - the peals of a thousand ringing bells- from the Thousand Handed Merciful Medicus themselves. 

【Do you swear it?】

Gossamer strands glisten when they catch the light and the Aeon descends before the other. 

【You cannot kill me in any way that matters, Ceaseless Hunter.】

A gordian knot - Endless. Lasting. When faced with an impossible puzzle, Alexander the Great opted to simply cut it loose. 

But no amount of brutality can transcend the truth writ in the very foundation of Being. And Unbeing. 

【It is in your nature to Hunt. And in Mine to…Liberate. You and I- we are intertwined. Impossible to extricate. Such is our nature.】

@luxarrow

[grislyintentions]

The Archer only stares, tracing every measured motion of Yaoshi with a predator’s precision. Pupils narrow, muscles coil, and breath stills. Do they want a kiss? No. The Archer craves far more than that. They bite. Porcelain skin shatters beneath their fangs like trees splintered by a furious bolt of lightning. Blood blooms, nectar eternal and divine spilling from Yaoshi like the first wound of creation itself. The Hunt drinks from the gushing vein of life and then draws back, drunk and poisoned all the same.

“Take,” They demand as their chest glows with comets flickering behind their ribs. Lan reaches inwards and rips a star from their chest. They lift the burning ball to Yaoshi’s lips like an offering of fruit.

Leaves quiver in the wake of the Hunt's impassioned pursuit ; They dance in the wind, swept into the relentless current. Fated to wither where they land in a brief yet beautiful return to nature.

There is but a thin line between the Hunter and their quarry. A ceaseless dance; nourishing base animalistic instincts.

The Thousand-Handed Merciful Medicus entwines their limbs around their Eternal Adversary, welcoming their endless need for conquest. Their touch prickles. Lichtenberg scars. Ripples in far flung galaxies.

Flames crackling in the column of their throat cast an incandescent glow, illuminating the Aeon from within as the star is swallowed.

Yaoshi takes hold of Lan's hand and touched their mouth against the tips of each finger.

@luxarrow

[odyniros]

@luxarrow: "You dare question my darling detested, yet you ..." Lan's gaze looks beyond Mydei and THEY see his choice of mate. THEY see Ruin in golden eyes, the infant Ravager canting their head curiously as a playful chimera is caged within their hallow chest. "... surely you jest, my scion, my cub."

golden eyes narrow a little at their reaction about his choice of beloved. he knows he isn't much different to their creator, he accepted that long ago. but unlike them, mydei doesn't pretend to hate his beloved, while he knows lan is determined to keep an act open in public but privately love their detested.

"no, i don't jest. i may be your and yaoshi's... outcome, but i'm not going to lie to the world. i care for phainon, i adore them more than you understand, and i know their path is destruction. but as long as i exist, i will help them find a way to leave that path safely, or die trying. i'm human, after all."

[ccaptain]

@luxarrow: Lan appears in a humanoid form and looks among the dishes Kaeya has spent an entire afternoon preparing. The Hunt does not care for mortal appearances or habits. Kaeya may push dishes towards THEM, but Lan does not move, refusing to eat. "Kaeya," THEY call, but it's clear the enigma is caught in a spell, keeping occupied by baking and cooking. Anxiety. "Kaeya." THEY call again. "Be still, Kaeya."

   This week has been hectic, to say the least.

   Nightmare after nightmare, all about a particular subject of his past. His sleep quality declined, Boothill having to hold him through the night or take him for a walk out in the rye grass. Precious time stolen from his charging cicles. He doesn't think he could have beared to take time away from his husband's Hunt too, on top of disturbing his rest, but of course his soulmate has sniffed the truth off him, when it clung to the same skin he's kissed like a natural scent. Kaeya should have expected a familiar visit when he claimed that he was feeling better, to not worry about him and enjoy his Hunt, and to come back soon.

   He just didn't expected said visit to be the Reignbow Arbiter THEMselves.    

   He doesn't see why Boothill would send THEM to him. (check the cake in the oven. check it again just to make sure.) Rappa could have done the job, Ashveil would have been perfect, peachy, the explosive maid could have helped him even better, (his fingers worry through the flour crumbs) but to send him an Aeon literally just to check on him?

   Maybe he's overthinking it. Maybe it's just a coincidence.

   ( He doesn't remember where the cookies came from. Did he really baked them himself? He has no memory of it. Regardless, it's an offer to the Hunt. )

   Use the microwave to soften butter. Clenching his hand around a wooden spoon until the batter is smooth. More plates on the table, pushed towards his guest, who could be a coat rack for the attention the Enigma is paying to them- not on purpose. He's just prioritizing the offerings that aren't disappearing off the table, so clearly Lan isn't pleased with them. So he makes more. And more. And more, hoping that the gratification nullifies the buzzing in his brain.

   At some point, somehow, THEY get through to him.    

   Kaeya starts with a jolt, fingers curling against his palm, knuckles scraping the counter. When he turns, the torment behind periwinkle could make one's veins rattle in their wrist: even without words, even without a proper explanation, Kaeya can't hide the thoughts in his mind quick enough to make those go conveniently unnoticed. Yet, Kaeya is apologetically ashamed of himself.

   ...He could do with a break. His brain doesn't agree, but it's in no condition to protest.

   Slowly, step by unsure step, he parts from the flour-stained counter and goes to sit in front of the Reignbow.

   '' I'm sorry, '' he tries, purple-hued fingers finding comfort in wrenching the set of his other hand. '' It's... It always gets bad around this time. Something has happened to me some years ago, during this time, and... '' It would be good to open up. It would only do him good. Y'gotta speak to be heard, pipsqueak, his dad tells him often. But the guilt gnaws at him- he has already disturbed Boothill enough for a straight up week. With what right could he possibly bother his Aeon, too?

   The flour smeared on his face feels like warpaint.

   The '' this is all I know to do to send it away, '' is small. Small and ashamed.