Notes: Exactly what it sounds like! The five founding members of the Syndicate discuss their plans. No warnings required.
Pings: @vicegrips-fr @mask-fr @kattafr @slighteyewing
From left to right: Koschei, Mischa, Nightshade, Nakahi, Mokomoko.
The inn is as it always is. The hodgepodge music of activity fills the air, overlapping chatter from patrons and off-key drunken singing laying a soft blanket over the entire inn. It leaves the party gathered around their usual corner table safe in their own private bubble.
Even so there’s a tension which runs through them. The merry quartet sits silently around mugs of ale they’re clutching too tightly. No one speaks, where there would usually be an overflow of conversation, all of them laughing and sharing stories. Eventually, one of the five claps his hands together and startles all but one other.
“A thought, Koschei?” Nightshade asks, not reacting to the clap but blinking slowly as a thin finger scratches the wooden grain on his mug. He looks at his protégé sidelong from the opposite side of the table, unblinking red eyes which appear as if infused with honey.
“A many,” Koschei says agreeably, lifting his chin up and exhaling as a catlike smile works its way across his features. He reaches to his left and lays an arm over his brother Mischa’s shoulders.
Mischa glances at him with an arched eyebrow.
“Go on, please,” Nightshade urges, the cadence of his voice hypnotic enough that it puts the rest of them more at ease, invites them to share their secrets, “Speak.”
“We need a base,” Koschei states, watching across the room as the other patrons dance and shout. No one is listening to them.
“That much is obvious,” Mischa mutters under his breath before he looks up at Koschei, “But with what you two are suggesting we need more than a house in the city. It would have to be easily defendable-”
“A castle with walls so high they’d never fall?” Nakahi interrupts from Koschei’s right with a scoff, “It doesn’t matter where we are. Nowhere’s impregnable.”
“Don’t let history blind you my friend,” Nightshade says with a gentle warmth as he deftly avoids the difficult subject, “As true as your words are, Mischa’s are in turn.”
“It’s all a moot point when we can’t afford the rent for a castle,” Mokomoko points out, weakly kicking Nakahi’s shin from her other side, “We barely have enough coin to keep our rooms.”
“Does that not get on your nerves, Moko?” Koschei prods, his eyes sharp as he stares across the table at him, “To know if one of our current prospects dries up, we could be staring at a winter on the streets?”
“It’s winter?” Mokomoko responds with an unfazed grin, “I can’t tell the difference between summer and winter here, honestly.”
“Don’t avoid my point,” Koschei sighs, though rolling his eyes good-naturedly as he lifts the mug to his lips and sips, making a face as he does, “Ah, I’d much rather be drinking vodka.”
“Too risky to drink the rubbing alcohol they sell here,” Nakahi bemoans, drinking from her own mug, “At least with ale we’re not going to go blind.”
There’s a few moments of thoughtful silence before Mischa shifts in his seat.
“I know you want us to be safe, Kos,” Mischa says, frustration evaporating as he looks over at his brother with a worried frown, “But what you’re suggesting isn’t possible.”
“It is,” Koschei insists, putting his mug down as his brows furrow, “It has to be.”
“Indeed,” Nightshade says, “If this proposal of ours is to succeed, then we must have somewhere to call our own.”
Nakahi hums, drumming her fingers on the table as she glares a hole in the middle of it. Her thoughts are like a physical thing swirling around them, maybe because of her strong heritage. The jade green eyes hidden by the black shrouded sclera of undeath stare and stare.
Finally, she tsks aloud and bites her lip, looking over at Koschei with an equal amount of thoughtfulness and hesitation on her face.
“You’re not done with being a nomad, dear?” Koschei asks, correctly reading her trepidation, “I understand your fears.”
She remains silent for a few more moments before speaking.
“If we tie ourselves to one place,” Nakahi explains, picking her words slowly and carefully, “Then if someone with greater strength than us comes, we’ll have no options.”
Nightshade folds his arms over his chest, sitting straight in his chair as he looks around the table.
“Well then,” he says, with the energy of a wise elder teaching fledgling students, “How do we make our way around that?”
“Multiple bases,” Mischa answers, with a shrug, “Even more astronomically impossible.”
Koschei groans aloud, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stamps his foot in annoyance.
“You’re a real downer tonight, eh Mish?” Mokomoko says, giving Mischa a lopsided smile, “Drink your ale already, you’re depressing me.”
“Ah, ye of little faith!” Koschei complains, raising his arms in exasperation, “Must you doubt me so, brother mine?”
“If no one else does, then yes,” Mischa counters, “Someone must curtail your lofty dreams, Kos.”
“Why curtail me when we stand to gain so much?” Koschei counters back, a twitch in his jaw, “I am by no means saying this will be easy, but it will be worth it! We will-”
“Oh, here we go,” Mokomoko whispers, nudging Mischa again- who this time hides his smile under his arm.
“-We will run an empire with no borders, no nation, no gods,” Koschei says, his tone hushed and reverent, his eyes open as if transfixed by his own dreams and words, “We’ll formulate a private army and place informants across all of Sorienth. We will pull strings to keep ourselves safe, relevant, and powerful.”
“All that just so we can be at peace,” Nightshade says, with a smile. Koschei grins back at him, encouraged by his smile.
“And we can’t do any of that without somewhere to live,” Mischa says, waving a hand dismissively, “I get it.”
“The way to get around it,” Nakahi says thoughtfully, her shoulders relaxing, “Is to have forces so powerful that no one could topple us.”
The calm thoughtfulness evaporates instantly as she punches her fist into an open hand with a shark-like smile. When she meets Koschei’s eyes he’s all but glowing with shared enthusiasm.
“All that,” Mokomoko echoes quietly, almost resigned to it.
Neither Koschei nor Nakahi hear him, both of them too busy encouraging one another’s dreams.
“That part is easy,” Koschei says, excitedly, “You are already incredibly powerful, my dear. All you would have to do is to push past those limits- who could stop us if we have you on our side? Who could stand toe to toe with someone whose combat sense is as refined as yours?”
“No one,” Nakahi growls loud and deep, getting to her feet and forcing Mokomoko to grab her drink so she doesn’t knock it over.
“Hey, easy!” Mokomoko protests, wincing, “No need to start a fight right now- at least wait until someone says something gross so it’s justified!”
“That’s not going to take long,” Mischa snorts, nodding to a man who is gesturing at them with pointed look, “The guy at the bar earlier gave us the dirtiest look I’ve ever seen.”
Nakahi sits down, shooting Moko an apologetic look and taking her mug back to take a hearty drink of it.
“Anyway,” Mischa says, “All that’s great but we haven’t resolved anything.”
Nightshade chuckles at that.
“Have we not?” he asks, putting both palms on the table for a moment, “We are in agreement, for once, that we need a home to call our own.”
“Mm, true,” Moko muses, “I… I mean, I do worry that if we’re not able to escape then we’ll be pinned in again- and I don’t want that to happen.”
He jumps a little when he feels Nakahi’s hand on his, for her hands are cold. They weren’t, not before she was resurrected by Nightshade. But that’s just the problem isn’t it? They both know how things can crumble if your back is against the wall.
“But I,” he continues, clearing his throat, “I know that those are just wounds from before.”
But then there’s the opposite. You can’t just run forever.
“Perfectly reasonable wounds,” Koschei assures, “Far be it for me to, ah, steamroll over your worries. Unless they’re Mischa’s worries.”
“Ha ha,” Mischa says, deadpan.
The four pause to drink, letting the slow burn of alcohol soothe their worries.
As the others drink, Nightshade reaches into the pocket of his suit and pulls out a letter. He places it on the table with great care, smoothing a palm over it.
“Oh?” Nakahi notes, tilting her head to the side, “A love letter for our silver fox?”
At that Nightshade’s eyes go wide and he laughs slightly, shaking his head.
“Hardly,” he says, “No, this is something far more valuable to all of us. I did some proverbial shaking of the trees, if you understand my meaning.”
“You… asked around for information on somewhere to set up base?” Mokomoko ventures, rubbing his chin with one hand.
“Correct,” Nightshade confirms, “I can verify that this is not nonsense, either. There are historical records- I say historical, I do not mean pre-history or some such nonsense.”
Koschei reaches for the letter but lets his hand hover over it motionless before Nightshade nods. At the confirmation he takes it and opens it, reading over the contents before handing it over to Nakahi.
“Reclaimer’s Glacier?” Nakahi asks, looking over at Koschei to find his expression not the one of elation she was expecting but one of deep and troubled thought.
“A worry, Koschei?” Nightshade asks lightly.
“Ah, no,” Koschei dismisses, swallowing, “Not at all. Do elaborate, friend.”
“According to my sources,” Nightshade explains, “There was once a clan of indeterminate origin and business that once held claim to a large palace among the field of the Reclaimer’s Glacier. Purportedly, it was carved out of one of these glaciers.”
“Sounds cold,” Mokomoko comments, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Not to the intensity you may expect,” Nightshade continues, “It is magically reinforced.”
“Mm, who's to say it won’t be full of traps?” Nakahi asks, handing the letter to Mokomoko, “If we don’t know who used to live there then we can’t rule out that maybe they didn’t want anyone following them.”
“Oh, but if it’s full of traps then it’s also full of treasure, right?” Mokomoko points out, “That might be fun.”
“Anyway,” Nightshade says, his serious tone silencing Nakahi and Mokomoko, “It is a solid lead- if I say so myself.”
“It’s pretty far away from civilization,” Mischa points out as the letter is handed to him by Mokomoko, “Which is good and bad, obviously.”
“If we have the right caravans set up then the trek to the nearest city is what, a couple of hours? It’s not too bad,” Nakahi muses, looking up at the ceiling as she maps it in her head.
“Really?” Mischa says, blinking, “Shouldn’t it be more like five hours?”
Nakahi reaches into her backpack where it sits next to her stool and proceeds to pull out a map to show Mischa the route they would take.
“Oh,” he says, lamely.
“You really can’t read a map to save your life, can you?” she teases, to which he sniffs indignantly- though he also smiles sidelong at her.
It is Koschei who has been uncharacteristically quiet. He stares at the ripples of ale in his mug, his mind transforming the waves into wind, into a blizzard, into being trapped.
“Koschei,” Nightshade says, as Koschei is startled out of his thoughts by his name being called, “Does this sound agreeable to you?”
Koschei looks down at the letter again where it now sits in the middle of the table and closes his eyes. He lets the blizzard slip away from his mind.
“How many supplies do you think we have?” he asks, tone unreadable.
“Uh,” Mischa offers slowly, “Enough for a week, probably.”
“Then we should go at daybreak,” Koschei declares, opening his eyes with a grin, “No time to waste.”
Nightshade smiles at that, nodding his head in agreement.
“No more stale ale then,” Mischa says, a little brighter and holding his mug out, “I’ll drink to that!”
“Oh, so now you like my idea?” Koschei counters, holding his mug to the middle of the table to clink against Mischa’s.
“It was Nightshade’s idea,” Nakahi points out, raising her mug too.
“I’m happy either way,” Mokomoko laughs, raising his mug in turn.
“To new horizons, then,” Nightshade finishes, lifting his mug with a delicate hand as the five of them clink the heavy wood together in the middle of the table, sealing the deal with a drink.
After a convo with @kattafr I decided what would be a really good idea is to try and condense the nearly 8 (holy shit) years of lore into a summary! I’ve revamped and rewritten so much that it’s actually been really useful to refresh my own memory.
I will be posting this in parts, maybe arc by arc but we’ll see if I need to split it later on or not.
@vicegrips-fr @mask-fr @slighteyewing
Koschei runs away from Sancti Sepulchre, the hidden home of the exiled Urusov Dynasty hidden deep, deep within the Icefields. He runs because he has accidentally killed his sister in a fight, and with him he brings his younger brother, Mischa. The rest of the Urusovs believe all three children dead, leaving Solovei Urusov as the only heir of the current Tsar, Didier Urusov.
Koschei finds himself in the port town of Hythveard, ironically enough the once seat of the Urusov Dynasty in the early 3rd Age. Here he meets a man named Nightshade who is attempting to gather power underground and challenge the petty king. Under his command are two refugees from the civil war in the Emerald Archipelago, an island chain off the coast of the Windswept Plateau, named Nakahi and Mokomoko Awhatopana. They are both indebted to Nightshade as he was the one who resurrected Nakahi after she died in said civil war.
As Koschei attempts to make a name for himself, striving never again to be beholden to those stronger or smarter than him. Despite this being his first time in the outside world, he exhibits a magnetic charisma and ability to move people to his side. Seeing an opportunity, Nightshade invites him to talk.
Between Nightshade, Koschei, Nakahi, Mischa, and Mokomoko, the five of them formulate the idea for an organisation that will span the breadth of power not just in one region, but many. A sprawling empire which runs underneath nations, pulling strings. An army with no land, with spies and diplomats and couriers. It is a mighty dream, a far-fetched notion. Nightshade calls it Thanatos.
Nightshade plans to use Koschei’s innate charisma and ability to make easier connections due to being Iceborn to puppet him from the shadows. They make Koschei the leader, something he takes to with aplomb, whilst Nightshade remains the real power behind the group. Nakahi takes up the mantle as their muscle, with Mischa and Mokomoko delegating the tasks of finding information and the right strings to pull between them.
After catching rumours of an abandoned castle, they trek southwards to the region close to Reclaimer’s Glacier. They discover that said ‘castle’ is actually a glacier of its own, mighty and azure. What is strange is that it has been carved inside to resemble a castle, with rooms and stairs and even a throne. Whilst Mokomoko protests this as a bad omen, the group move in.
The sixth generation of the Urusovs, Natascha, Koschei, and Mischa. These are the three unfortunate children of Anastasia and Didier; now all considered dead after all three disappeared one night.
Ilya sits at the piano and plays, his eyes shut as he sways back and forth, glasses clink as Oksana cleans them to busy herself.
Mischa sits in one of the booths and writes, clicking the pen repeatedly as he thinks. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t notice someone slide into the booth opposite until he sees said figure lean on their elbows; he has enough grace not to jump, and enough tact to simply copy the move until his eyes settle against a stranger’s.
“Hello,” he says, his voice warm and eyes crinkling, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“I think you can,” she answers softly, leaning forward across the table conspiratorially.
Mischa smiles in return and does not mirror her movement.
“If that was flirtatious, I’m afraid I’m not interested,” he says, not unkindly, “I hate to be so blunt, but I don’t wish to lead anyone on.”
She giggles, drawing back and placing a stack of cards down next to her. Mischa looks between them and her eyes, tilting his head to the side ever so lightly.
“It was, and I appreciate your honesty,” she replies, tone changing like a chameleon, “But honesty isn’t what I’m looking for.”
“You’re a gambler?” Mischa asks, surprising himself as he closes his journal to give her his full attention.
“Astute observation,” she teases, shuffling the cards in hypnotic, fast movements.
“A-ha, yes,” Mischa replies, happy to poke fun at himself, “I have good eyes, no?”
The smile doesn’t meet her eyes. That’s alright. It wasn’t a very good joke.
“Do you play?” she asks, snapping the cards back into a perfect stack.
“On occasion,” he answers, fingers interlacing as their eyes stay locked.
“On this occasion?”
“Would you like honesty?”
“Honestly, no.”
Mischa laughs at that, and gets up, forfeiting his work for good. He doesn’t usually interact with strangers- they don’t usually come to him, for one. It would be nice to talk to someone new, do something fun for once.
“Let me get another drink- can I buy you something? Oh, my deepest apologies, I didn’t catch your name yet…?”
He holds out his hand to shake hers- she grasps it. Her skin feels cool and crisp.
“Sarnaso,” she says, “And you’re too kind.”
When she hands him her empty glass- empty?- he feels a sharp prick against his fingers. He draws back sharply but doesn’t drop the glasses.
Something flashes in his mind, and then it’s gone
What was it? Something like whispering, a dozen voices. Someone says something. Someone-?
“What’ll it be, Misch?” Oksana says, and he doesn’t remember walking up to the bar. His feet must have moved without him, too engrossed in his own mind. That’s not unusual. He’s walked into enough walls in his life, at least he didn’t knock over one of the bar stools.
Too bad he didn’t even ask what Sarnaso was drinking.
“Uh,” he says, but Oksana is already filling both the glasses up. He internally exhales, relieved to save face. Impoliteness is just terrible.
“You’re lucky,” Oksana says as he picks both glasses back up, slim and ink stained fingers stark against crystalline flutes.
“Why do you say that?” he asks.
“I don’t usually lose,” Sarnaso answers.
Sat back down, glasses both nearly empty again. When did he sit down?
More to the point, when did they start playing? Sure enough, there are cards, and he’s won.
His fingers feel odd. He rubs them together and they feel slick. They’re still bleeding, beading blood. The ink has gone. Did he wash his hands at some point? Wait, what? He’s barely even drunk anything.
The alarm must show on his face, because Sarnaso slides into the booth next to him. It doesn’t help. She must note his visible discomfort, because she says, “I don’t bite.”
“Of course not,” Mischa says, politely, clearing his throat because it feels full of cotton, “What do I win?”
He pauses, and grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. It feels like anointing himself with more blood. But it can’t be. He barely even cut himself.
“That was rude,” he amends, “My apologies.”
“You don’t remember what we were betting?” she asks, full of shock.
He swallows and looks at the table again. The cards have moved. No, he lost. He glances up. Where did Ilya go? Oksana’s still at the bar, but now she’s chatting-
He lost?
“You’re not very strong, are you?” Sarnaso says, voice now full of fake pity. “Poor fragile thing you are.”
He can’t think of a response to that. Fight or flight pierces his brain but fight or flight from what and who? Why? For whom?
“I’ll share something with you anyway,” she says, “Fragile little boy.”
Her hand curls around his thigh and she leans into his ear. The hairs on the back of his neck raise, like her breath is full of static.
“You should know, your elder twin? He killed your sister. Go ahead and ask him about it.”
Mischa blinks.
“Misch?”
He sits up in bed. In bed? Where is he? What time is it? What day? Time?
It’s morning. The light streams through the window and Koschei leans in the doorway with a familiar expression; fond admonishment is on his lips, and he pushes away from the frame to step into the room.
“My dear, what is wrong with you? I haven’t seen you drink that much in a long, long time,” Koschei says, with a chuckle, “You’re not as young as you used to be.”
He stops at the head of the bed and flicks Mischa in the forehead with a gloved hand.
“Do we have a sister?”
Koschei’s expression looks like he’s been slapped. His hand slowly recoils back to him.
The tension in the room is stifling.
“I don’t feel well,” Mischa says faintly, raising a hand to his forehead. It feels slick. Slick and warm and wet.
Koschei’s eyes are too wide, not full of alarm, not alarm- what is that?
“You should get some sleep,” Koschei says, and the alarm is gone, replaced by kindness.
Ever so gentle, he pushes Mischa’s hair away from his eyes, easing his younger brother back into bed and tucking him back in. Koschei inhales as Mischa exhales, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. Koschei’s hand stills against Mischa’s brow- the image as vivid as the day it happened. The noise, the movement, the smell-
Their fight comes to blows. Both so full of youthful rage. But he’s bigger, and he pushes her, and she trips on the hearth, and the piercing crack of the back of her skull against the brick, the way her body crumples like a marionette without strings, dead before she even hits the floor. The blood against the pale bricks. The smell of it.
Inhale exhale.
He pulls a glove off with his teeth and his bare flesh meets the fluttering pulse in Mischa’s neck.
He plucks the secret back.
Mischa doesn’t need to know that. More to the point, neither does whoever told him. It must have been a fluke, a very lucky guess, for there is no way anyone who knows would be here undetected.
No, Koschei thinks, pulling his gloves back on, the Urusovs would burn his kingdom down sooner than sneak in like rats to disrupt.
Rats he can find. Rats he can eliminate.
But which rat can read minds? Which rat steals secrets?
Koschei feels the shadows behind the curtains flicker.
In a ravaged town in the middle of a desert, Valora pulls away from her father’s hand.
“Sweetie,” Koschei murmurs, turning to gently chide her before he blinks in confusion. She never lets go willingly, but she’s turned around and absolutely bolted in the opposite direction. She’s been deep in thought all day and this- this is out of character.
This place is a wreck. Where once stood high stone walls of brick and mortar, and mighty cannons, lays nothing but rubble and wind-swept houses. It’s a border town with nothing of value, simply a stop on the way to somewhere more populated.
Without another thought, Koschei chases after her. His boots hit the sand and within a few seconds he’s caught up and scoops her into his arms. She flails and lets out a little gasp of surprise, but freezes only for a split second before she kicks.
“Ow,” he winces, winded as he pulls her higher into his arms, “Dear girl, what is it?”
She shakes her head, tiny fragile fingers pushing against Koschei’s forearm uselessly, kicking against him and making little impact.
“Someone wants my help,” she argues, suddenly deeply impassioned, “In the desert.”
“Slow down there,” Koschei says, kindly and softly as he kisses the back of her head, “This direction?”
“Yes,” Valora says, and without letting her go, he walks at a far more normal pace. This satisfies her to a degree, at least, enough that she stops squirming.
“A spirit, I take it?” Koschei ventures, after a few moments of tense silence.
“Yes,” Valora says, quickly, “They’re very loud. And upset. They know you.”
“Upset at me?” he asks, curious and immediately wary of this.
Valora pauses for a moment.
“No,” she says, thoughtfully, “They’re not upset at you. They’ve been waiting. I think- I think I can help. And I want to! I do.”
Koschei can’t feel the spirits, or spirit individual, that Valora can, but he has the feeling of being watched. Likely just the result of her words, but his skin itches uncomfortably regardless. Someone he knows? He knows plenty who have died bad deaths- it comes with the territory. Underprepare, and die.
But who died here, in this desert where there is nothing? What did they die for? It’s someone who recognises him by sight.
“I need my friends,” she says, and Koschei waits to see if she’s talking to him or this spirit. “Papa.”
“Ah, me,” he says, and she whines as he chuckles, “Roanoke and Alucard, then? You, ah, want to bring this spirit back from the grave? Is that wise, little one?”
“Will you hurt anyone?” she asks, into the silence.
Koschei walks. The sand crunches under his boots, the sun beating down on the both of them. Valora’s hood remains pulled up to shelter her from the sun, a bright red cloak. Koschei, on the other hand, sweats under the plague sun.
Sometimes, he can’t wait to go home.
“They say yes,” Valora informs, cheerfully.
Koschei smiles to himself.
“How honest,” he notes, “I do prefer that. You’re sure they aren’t upset at me?”
Valora nods emphatically.
“I can feel it,” she says, “They’re happy to see you, just angry at someone else. I don’t.. I don’t recognise them. I’m sorry.”
He can hear the pout in her voice.
“I see,” he murmurs, “Well, I suppose I can send one of the birds back.”
It’s dusk by the time shapes appear on the horizon.
Koschei sits with Valora in his lap, although she hasn’t sat still for more than few minutes since being contacted. Getting up, pacing, answering questions he has no context for. Ever patient, she moves them every so often to where, presumably, the body of this spirit is. Somewhere beneath the featureless desert.
Koschei stands, dusting the sand from his trousers, and salutes Mischa as he lands, who shifts as he does.
“Thanks for coming,” Koschei says.
“I didn’t really have a choice,” Mischa replies cheerfully, elbowing Koschei in the side. He puts down both Roanoke and Alucard. The two young boys squint up at Koschei. Roanoke, ever polite, bows. Alucard huffs and looks away.
Koschei crouches down to their level, a kind smile on his face.
“Thank you for coming, boys,” he says softly, “No one else but you can do this.”
That is enough to spark Alucard’s interest. He wrings his hands and steps closer, fins straight and defiant.
“There’s someone here,” Roanoke says, interrupting Alucard before he has the chance to speak.
Without meeting Alucard’s eyes, or Koschei’s, Roanoke walks past them and to where Valora is stood. Alucard quickly runs after him.
Koschei and Mischa hang back; Koschei frowns, lines of worry on his face.
“I don’t know about this,” he murmurs.
“It’s a bit late for that,” Mischa says, “I hope this is a friendly spirit.”
The three children speak with their heads together, their words lost to the rising winds. Valora and Alucard both move, right and left, both kneeling down. Their eyes close, both of them placing their hands on the warm sands. A white light spills between Valora’s hands, and wisps of black smoke rise from Alucard’s.
A faint whispering fills the air. The faint echo of cannon fire. The scent of gunpowder.
Roanoke bites down on his own wrist. The blood trickles down the inseam, dribbles down his fingers. His blood runs, unnaturally red, almost glowing in the receding light. The purple and gold hues of the sky paint the children like a slowly dissolving dream. Where the blood falls, the sand begins to sink. Roanoke holds out both hands in front of him, and slowly pushes them down. The sand obeys his command.
Arising like the crest of a mountain range, is a skeleton. It has been picked clean by the animals of the desert, the bugs, the unbearable heat. It has been polished by the sands, and now rises like a leviathan, a mighty beast. An imperial in it’s prime. There is a break in the chest where a cannonball cracked the sternum open. The bones are a tangle of white.
Roanoke raises his hands back up, and the mighty beast rises out of the sands. Transfixed, the two Urusovs watch as a trio of children resurrect the skeleton from it’s unwilling grave. It’s bones land on the ground with a rumble which runs through like a shockwave. It comes to rest mere feet away from Roanoke, who raises his left hand to place it against the cracked sternum. The skeleton held, suspended by the magic, as flesh begins to weave around the bones.
Blood trickles onto the sand, and life is born anew from it. As the muscles, the sinews, the skin and scales begin to rework, the air is knocked from Koschei’s chest.
“Kos?” Mischa murmurs, not moving his gaze from the display.
“Boethiah,” Koschei breathes, transfixed and now understanding- he takes a step closer. Mischa grabs his arm.
The mighty gladiator prince is reborn, their visage restored, with only a writhing, spiral scar along the chest. They flare their wings. Roanoke lowers his hand, and promptly sways before sinking to his knees. The spell breaks.
Valora and Alucard both wince, shaking the sparks off their hands before they both scramble to Roanoke’s side.
Boethiah takes one step forward, the sound of it a deep rumble, and then crashes onto the sands. Their mighty head ends up in Roanoke’s lap, muzzle against his chest.
Koschei and Mischa both run over. Mischa looks over the huge Imperial, awed, and Koschei frowns down at his old friend.
“Boethiah?” he asks, but there is no response.
“The cannon fire deafened them,” Roanoke murmurs, his voice strained, “I can’t fix that.”
Boethiah’s black rimmed eyes swivel up to look at his pure red ones.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Boethiah’s mouth opens to let out a sigh long held, and then, slips into silence.
another five bios rewritten and recoded, i don’t think i’ll post every single one but mischa was in such sore need of a rewrite, it feels great to have him properly described 8)
mischa has this presence of being on the straight and narrow and very clean but if he’s off work and stressed he chain smokes and drinks, and boy, he can drink a lot
The edge of his glass has barely hit the bar before it’s swiped away and just as quickly caught before his mind’s eye even catches up. A muttered, scuttering apology as a man he doesn’t know makes his escape. The bar is empty again, just the noise of glasses being cleaned. A moment of reprieve, away from the crowd. He was really enjoying it too. Even better that broken glass hasn’t pierce his feet and ruined the carpet.
“Thanks,” Mischa sighs, before he pulls a face, looking up with an annoyed scowl, “Oh, nevermind. I’m not thanking you.”
Koschei sets the glass down on the bar without clinking it. The bartender takes it flashing him a grateful, tired look. He only slides his other arm opposite, and Mischa glares as fiercely as anyone can. It’s only more endearing; he can’t pull of intimidating at all, not even in a black suit, not even as clean as they come, not even as he wears the same features as his tormentor and rescuer.
“Why not?” Koschei asks, with put upon melancholy. He flutters his eyelashes, rolling his shoulder forward. All of his clothes are tailored, of course, and lesser suits would groan as he flexes ego-fuelled muscles, tight rope in his shoulders.
Mischa grabs both of his arms, fingers curling tight around immaculately pressed jacket sleeves. Creases bend and fold. They’re the exact same height, and Mischa drags him forward until their faces are closer. Koschei purrs appreciatively, and Mischa kicks him in the shin.
“Ow,” he says, absently, looking down. “You kicked me. Did you mean to kick me?”
“You’re a lech,” Mischa says, still scowling. He grips Koschei’s arms harder to force him to look back up and focus. “Stop hitting on me.”
“Who says I’m hitting on you? How awfully full of yourself to infer-”
Mischa cuts him off with a huff, rolling his eyes. He resists the childish urge to kick him again.
“I didn’t infer, I looked your flirting in the eyes and then poked them out.”
“Well that’s an unpleasant mental image,” Koschei notes dryly, attempting to lean forward as Mischa leans back.
If he were serious, he would say no. It’s always been their way, this little masochistic tango of duelling words and touch. Koschei might be insatiable, but he’s far more respectful than actually pushing barriers. These barriers aren’t barriers, and he knows that from the way that Mischa’s eyes are sparkling with amusement, how his tight grip isn’t holding him back but pulling him forward, fingers flexing around the bulk of muscle.
What a tease, Koschei thinks, wiggling his eyebrows.
“You’re an unpleasant mental image,” Mischa counters brightly.
“Mischa,” Koschei says, pouting.
“You’re the personification of an egotistical self-congratulatory circle jerk,” Mischa continues, “You just want to make out with a mirror.”
“I want to make out with you, actually. Mirrors don’t kiss back.”
“I do not-!”
He leans forward and Mischa doesn’t lean back, his playful protests smothered against his lips. He kisses back, letting go of Koschei’s arms to slide them higher up and linking them behind his neck.
“Fuck you,” he mutters, as Koschei nuzzles against his neck, smiling, “You’re going to hell.”
“Already there, baby,” Koschei purrs, kissing his jaw and cheek, “Kiss me again.”
