#maskend

[sangreals]

with each step towards the castle looming over her, celine feels as though she is taking a step further into the mouth of a great, hungry beast. of late, she has been come too accustomed with sharp tooth and ragged claw and desperately learned all the ways to avoid gaping maw after gaping maw. however, this beast is a slumbering one according to the tales that have swept through the land. had it not been, she suspects she would never would have made it so far as a single step within its sprawling shadow.

better a sleeping monster, she thinks grimly as her eyes trace dark turrets staining the pale morning sky, than one awake and ravenous. besides, there is no turning back - not when there is nowhere left to turn back to.

she stills at the threshold of the castle's stairs and allows herself to peer up at vast doors and the dark stone soaring seemingly endlessly above. it stands at the intersection of beauty and dread, this place, and she grits her jaw against the shiver that threatens to creep down her spine. pushing hair messied from the road over her shoulder, her worn boots click softly against the stairs as she ascends towards the doors.

a hand lifts to press to against the door only to pause a hair's breadth away even as the cold of the stone seeks to curl around her wrist. the last village had spoken to her of a golden haired creature inhabiting the castle, something only glimpsed in brief flashes from the corner of one's eyes in the woods and along the river. celine had attributed their tale to the results of a poisoned well or moldy grain but, for the first time, she finds herself considering whether to at least exercise some level of courtesy, however unnecessary.

"hello?" she calls out to no one as her hand retreats to her side & immediately feels an utter fool for it. "is there anyone here? i don't mean any-," celine sighs and rubs at her brow, though she continues with words that feel mortifyingly futile, "i mean no harm to any within." @maskend

[sangreals]

“anything worth doing always starts as a bad idea.” from iorweth for celine, of course B)

"spoken like someone all too well acquainted with bad ideas," celine retorts with a roll of dark eyes, though there is no true bite beneath her words. she also makes no effort to counter his point. he is right, after all, iorweth. "tell me does this thing worth doing of your's also include a shoddy plan and require a disproportionate amount of luck?"

it is not lost on the sorceress that her own plans, while uncommon & smaller in scale compared to her more ambitious sisters scattered across the continent, always entail both. perhaps, celine considers distantly, that is why her and the scarred elf have always seemed to work so well alongside each other despite sharing nothing in common save beating pulse.

"you are a terribly poor influence, you know," celine folds her arms over her chest in a failed attempt to ward off the night's chill, the forest surrounding them silent save for the rustling of leaves against the breeze. it all rests somewhere between peaceful and eerie. "at this hour, the only decision before me should be whether to finish my day with a glass of red or white. yet, here i am, in the woods with a notorious elven rebel and a nary a bottle of the sansretour's finest at hand."

shifting her weight from foot to foot as she tugs her cloak around thin shoulders, she settles her gaze on the elf. the cold fire in his eyes that she's become acquainted with cannot fully mask the exhaustion that hovers in the shadows of his handsome features. still, he is alive, and that in itself is no small miracle.

as always, quick & vibrant relief flickers in her for it.

"so, tell me what it is you need, iorweth," celine acquiesces with a quiet sigh, "or how i can help."

[puppetrys]

᯽ @maskend, from clover : ❝ you're not real. ❞

❝ i-i should be saying that to you! ❞ this can't be a real conversation she's having—— maybe her mind has finally given up on her, with all the paranoia and stress and near death experiences. but this—— this is too outlandish. ❝ you—— you died! that's what they all said ... ❞ that's what she read, when her curiosity got the best of her. as if she needed the grim details.

the words jut out at her now, unbidden. an explosion—— no recovery—— grace rubs at her eyes and tries to blot it out from her memory. her pistol feels like dead weight in her hand. ❝ are you one of—— one of them? ❞ why does she ask? does she even think she could shoot him, if it came down to it? a familiar face. a friendly face, once upon a time.

she feels bile rise in her throat at the thought.

[walkpathe-arch]

03. throws an object across the room. + kara to erik rifp

he hears kara approaching long before they even come close to the room, up the inn's ramshackle wooden stairs.  a few thundering strides and then, predictably, the door swings open to allow a human storm in. it doesn't break, at least, but the pitcher of something — cheap ale, most likely — certainly does. it smashes right against the opposite wall, at erik's back.

erik does not flinch.  he doesn't even look up from his work;  he keeps his hands moving, careful with how he drags the whetstone upon the blade. it is kara's sword that he holds over his knee, almost tenderly. he does not have to, they haven't required it of him, but it is habitual, and it soothes him when the hours drag on.

'' trouble? ''   he sets the sword aside and looks at them with the same golden hue to his eyes, measuring, assessing.  at ease, shoulders slightly hunched, he does not worry much;  if there is trouble they can leave the small inn and go back to the road. erik needs but a word from them to spring up and start packing. they don't work together as often as before, when kara was still mentoring him, yet following their lead is a familiar reflex.

prompt

[xianqu]

omg hii

HIIIIIIII TEEHEE

[daeruwid]

[ 24. ] sender drapes a blanket over receiver, accidentally waking them. "sorry, go back to sleep." + @sc0iatael

his sleep is light, one that easily lends itself to rising when the sky is still covered in the gray-indigo of pre dawn.  emìl stirs, almost immediately, at the careful brush of a blanket upon his shoulder, eyes still adjusting to the penumbra when he finds iorveth's hand, close and so very dear. the druid kisses it gently, presses his lips to the knuckles in a silent endeavor to thank the elf for the caring gesture.

'' it is alright. ''

the slow unhurried chirping of birds tells him it is early, dawn just stretching its tendrils in the sky above, and — even if iorveth had not meant to — emìl is glad to having been roused from sleep.  he enjoys the warmth of the wool for a few moments more, smiling as he keeps holding iorveth's hand, content to have them near. as he always is when @maskend finds their way to his home and fits so seamlessly there. he has given him a bed, separate from his own, although he has made it clear to iorveth that he is welcome in every part of the house.

'' i will make breakfast, ''   he talks softly, voice still pitched a little lower from sleep, rising to his feet to start the day. he looks over at iorveth before leaving the room, noticing the boots still wrapped around his feet and guessing he must have just arrived, or nearly.   '' rest, if you wish. ''