#mkoshi

[blacknighted]

@mkoshi asked: i feel safe in your arms. [fauna] / FEELING SAFE AND EXPRESSING COMFORT: still accepting.

"Huh?" Henry stops scrubbing his hands, peering over the broad sweep of his shoulder. Interesting. He more feels his callouses than sees them, all the stories and the battles that have wrought them rough, and wonders when last it had been when he had found them gentle. The daisies — even the eyebrights he would pluck, he'd mash right up.

"What else am I here for, right?" What a phrase. He splashes his face with the river water, icy still with the early creep of summer upon them, and talks — aye, jabbers talk as though he's naught but a forged hard weapon. But he finds no shame in the musing, in being that silver of the longsword that will keep her safe, for those fools with that hunt her with their ill intention? He would slaughter them. Pulse them, he would, as though berries to stone. By the stars, he would watch her dawdle in her awing, this daughter of the forest with her words so mum. Like — like she hopes he might lean to hear her secrets. He longs to. His heart warms, her guardian angel. "Hardly be earning my keep were I letting you sit there feeling otherwise, would I? My duty is to you. And it's not just a part of me, is it? You've all of it. My body's yours."

[crestfallens]

𖤝 … @mkoshi ( fauna ).

⸻ The witch does not enter the grove with ill want nor need. He doesn't start this way, at least. He wishes only to acquire a handful of leaflets for a spell. This is as innocent as he's ever been.

He's not alone. In the forests, one never is. A truth he acknowledges and oft pays no mind to. Yet, the presence that lurks near calls for pause. The power radiates, palpable. Intriguing.

Uncharacteristically, he brushes the soil from his palms onto his trousers, movement of his legs stiff and slow as he rises from the ground. His present task is momentarily abandoned in favor of curiosity. Where there is earthen force, he must be. Nature seeks to ruin him at this age, and still, he is coaxed like moth to flame.

It doesn't spend much of his time to locate the source, fair-haired and seemingly oblivious to his own presence. To someone as wretched as him, this is an advantage.

And so, he watches. He waits, with a smile that's an effort. It doesn't reach his eyes, dark and intense in his brazen gazing.

[denydawn]

𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃  lords,  sometimes  he  swore  that  fate  was  trying  to  get  him  killed.  either  that,  or  it  simply  had  the  unfortunate  tendency  to  point  him  at  things  that  would  see  him  dead.  everything  would  inevitably  fall  into  combat  and  fire  and  flames  and  death,  devastatingly  so;  he  had  witnessed  the  demise  of  person  after  person  too  many  times  to  count,  and  for  what?  their  phantoms  had  no  wisdom  to  depart  to  him.  

no,  that  wasn’t  true.  setting  his  eyes  upon  her,  every  spirit  he  had  ever  witnessed  leaving  cried  out  at  once:  run  for  the  hills.  

it  was  chance  which  put  him  in  her  company,  and  if  he  had  possessed  the  power  he  would  have  willed  the  lords  to  put  him  anywhere  else.  he  would  take  the  worst  dungeons  in  the  world  over  being  within  her  vicinity;  he  prided  himself  on  a  charisma  that  he  did  not  have  and  an  eagerness  to  know  others  which  oft  came  off  as  unnerving  at  times,  yet  even  he  knew  better  on  a  glance  than  to  approach  with  too  much  enthusiasm.  

perhaps  he  was  making  assumptions.  he  had  developed  an  unfortunate  habit  of  doing  that  as  of  late.  he  took  a  breath,  steeled  himself,  and  offered  the  other  as  pleasant  of  a  smile  as  he  could  manage,  thin  though  it  was.  

❛  fancy  the  rain’ll  let  up  soon,  or  do  you  think  we’ll  down  out  here  ??  ❜

@mkoshi ( dolores ) // starter call

[denydawn]

DOLORES ( @mkoshi ) said, “ how long have you been watching me? ” here / accepting

𝐇𝐄  had  not  been  watching  her  so  long  as  to  form  any  other  opinion  other  than  this:  what  dreadful  company  she  was  bound  to  be.  it  was  best  not  to  mistake  him  as  the  sort  to  make  harsh  assumptions  on  another’s  character  by  merely  a  glance;  experience  had  taught  him  that  such  was  a  flawed  method  of  going  about  social  engagements  and,  to  add  insult  to  injury,  was  more  likely  to  cause  rifts  between  people  than  it  was  to  foster  any  genuine  growth.  

that  being  said,  the  woman  had  what  was  no  doubt  the  most  unpleasant  expression  he  had  ever  been  unfortunate  enough  to  gleam.  the  few  words  they  had  exchanged  betrayed  the  sharpness  of  her  tongue  and  wit  in  equal  measure.  for  that  reason,  he  was  more  than  content  to  let  them  go  about  in  silence.  surely  no  issue  would  be  raised  with  him  merely  glancing  in  her  direction  once  or  twice,  if  only  to  sate  his  own  quiet  distrust  of  the  magical  lot.  

ironic  that  he  would  have  conjured  black  flame  unto  his  hands  and  drenched  his  blade  in  midnight’s  fury,  yet  still  found  the  nerve  to  hold  other  sorcerers  and  witches  at  arms  length.  such  was  the  consequence  of  being  an  endangered  lot:  trust  did  not  come  easy,  not  even  amongst  their  own  ranks.  

his  response  came  with  a  sigh,  soft-spoken  yet  sharp,  ❛  but  for  a  few  breaths,  i  assure  you.  no  longer.  ❜ 

in  keeping,  his  eyes  shifted  to  their  surroundings.  perhaps  changing  the  subject  of  his  focus  would  spare  him  whatever  ire  she  had  to  give  to  the  world  -  no,  to  him  for  the  time  being.  

[denydawn]

FAUNA ( @mkoshi ) said, “ where did you come from? ” here / accepting

𝐈𝐓  was  the  question  he  tended  to  dread  the  most:  where  did  he  come  from?  there  was  the  practical  answer  (the  terrible  answer)  of  a  hundred  dead  and  a  red  moon;  there  was  the  dishonest  answer  of  his  mother’s  loins;  there  was  the  typical  answer  of  a  small  hamlet  village  or  the  name  of  a  lesser  house  he  had  since  moved  on  from.  he  had  come  from  all  of  those  places  and  none  of  them,  for  he  was  without  house  or  land  or  merit.  all  he  had  was  a  dragon.  pity  that  the  world  seemed  fit  to  call  that  enough.

said  dragon,  he  was  certain,  was  lingering  about  somewhere.  pamon’s  wings  had  grown  sore  (or  so  he  assumed  by  the  beast’s  low  groans  and  a  similar  pain  brewing  between  his  own  shoulders)  and  so  a  rest  had  been  needed,  but  the  beast  had  never  been  the  sort  to  merely  lay  down  and  recuperate.  pamon  had  to  move.  one  moment  the  black  fiend  was  near  but  the  edge  of  the  grove,  and  the  next  he  was  wholly  vanished  into  it.

and  thus,  as  any  decent  dragoon  ought  to  have,  cináed  gave  chase  -  if  one  could  call  it  that.  it  was  more  of  a  lumbering  pursuit  that  had  him  cursing  pamon  from  tail  to  tip  with  every  step  taken  after  the  first.

he  did  not  know  what  he  expected  to  find  beyond  his  dragon  no  doubt  using  a  tree  as  a  chew-toy,  but  a  person  was  not  one  of  them.  far  from  a  fool,  he  knew  how  his  own  looks  might  have  implied  a  treachery  or  several  brewing  about  in  his  frame.  cináed  raised  his  hands  with  his  palms  to  the  woman,  noting  her  strange  visage  first,  then  remembering  how  to  speak  once  the  initial  shock  of  antlers  passed  him  by.

❛  a  fishing  town,  ❜  came  the  knight’s  response.  ❛  i  don’t  mean  any  harm,  nor  to  cause  any  trouble.  my…  companion  has  wandered  off.  i  mean  only  to  find  him,  then  i  will  be  out  of  your  hair.  you  have  my  word.  ❜

[blacknighted]

He told her he'd be back one day, but before they knew it, a winter became two became three and then five. Realistically, it had rather felt as though a lifetime to this man, these slows seasons puttering on past him like the great length of twenty. He feels them hammered in his muscles, its fangs tucking all sharp in the run of his flesh. He's become an almanac of winters, a long chronography of sorts of wars and grief and ravaging battles. Look at him: the lines at his eyes and the grey at his temples! And god, when stripped, the scars, that burn, runched at his back.

He's now forty, the bloody idiot, with no home, wounds raw, and a great, visible brand on the right of his neck. He is hunted. He hated, spurned, and loathed like leper! He nocks his arrow. Anyone, anyone at all, could want him dead.

"I hear you plenty," he warns. His voice is deeper. It's still so very Henry, round, the phantoms of a softness bobbling in the middle, but God, how gritter with age and hurt it comes. What's happened to you, Henry? Your tent is miserable, Henry. The canopies trembling, he aims his handsome bow on the shadow in the thickets. "I could skewer you from your breathing alone. Come out. Slowly." / @mkoshi, liked for a starter.

[retribune]

⸻⸻ continued from here ☆ with @mkoshi

dai's smile disappears . well - liked ? for what ? he was a lover of dragons , who never stood for anything . charming , perhaps , but she'd always found his gaze more lecherous than anything . and the way he 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 , when he saw her scales ... even the thought of it makes her see bright red .

she's such a fool , to have ever believed homura could 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃 her , see her , love her . a sudden wash of overwhelming despair overtakes her , sickening to her stomach . she collapses , folding into herself , a foul imitation of the kneeling expected from her — and yet , once more bowing to homura , princess , ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ .

slowly , with excruciating weight , she raises her gaze ⸻

⸻⸻ ❛ what's wrong with you ? ❜

she means for it to be a biting retort , full of venom . but homura's eyes defang her , strip her of both scale and skin . it's a sad attempt to fight back . 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙘 , really .

dai wraps her arms around herself , smearing blood across her waist . ❛ you made me this way . why aren't you ever sorry ? ❜

[retribune]

❝ … damn you. ❞ kalmel

⸻⸻ ❛ ... ❜

⸻⸻ she puts her hands on her heart . her only visible grief is a single , pearlescent bead — otherwise , she is every part the queen she always is , the one she is so certain melantha despises .

❛ i know how you feel , ❜ she says , empty words . really , kaltaene will never truly understand — has never experienced the betrayal , only been the traitor . still , she has to say something , stop this horrible blue between them , a rift she has not managed to heal since that one fateful day , decades ago .

kaltaene's eyes , quicksilver , open to bright orange butterflies . they contain a long history , many stolen nights , and thousands of apologies she's unable to phrase . duty calls above it all .

❛ ... but i cannot allow the child to stay here . this court you've made is not his home , and his grandfather is ... ❜ she doesn't continue . it's easy to infer — helio , beautiful son , and the last king of the fae , have very DIFFERENT ideas of what's best . and kaltaene , both mother and daughter , but terrified of her father , has already given up her will .