#myrdir

[saintsdawn-a]

↬ @myrdir says, “ i will try to go home. eventually. ”

“ where is home ? dawnstar ? ” they do not dare look away from the book. if they do, they’ll lose their place. a stranger might think it rude, but a stranger wouldn’t know that the finger they placed on the page is a mark. zouin has their complete attention. “ or is there somewhere else ? ”

but will she ever try? where would she go? falkreath, or solitude? the home of the vigil of stendarr? 

the finger taps against the page. “ do you miss it ? ”

[blacknighted]

@myrdir asked: " shall we take a leisurely stroll through the garden, just you and me ? " / 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐄: still accepting.

The garden. A stroll through the garden. God (and he nearly crosses his heart here), one might have thought he'd died, slept in earth, and had returned a maiden.

Chuckling -- pleasantly bemused, don't get it twisted, thank you -- Henry works his clanky shirt of mail off the top of his head. When done, this man's right where he'd left him with the colors of the twilight bedecking him silver. Zouin seems barer here, Hal muses, as though comfortable in a way that flatters his soul. He glows. Seeing Zouin here go soft with whimsy? What a treat. Hair askew, Henry tames it on back with a mindless rake. Ah. "You like flowers now, do you?" he wonders aloud, his shirt mindfully perched atop a log with mushrooms. "Aww. I'm supposing the sort from Skalitz aren't enough for you then." Tsk, tsk! "Guessing the smell of the forge isn't to your liking."

[saintsdawn-a]

↬ @myrdir sends, 11. gripping the others jaw and tilting their face up wordlessly.

it’s less of a shiver and more of a spark. she thinks of it as an ember – small pieces from wood that popped, or ash that fell on the skin. not painful, but jolting. not unpleasant, but exciting. 

her daze doesn’t last, and her task is forgotten. why bother with leather and cloth when someone far more interesting is here? 

a part of her wants to tease, but another wants to savor the moment. gods, will you stop acting like a fool? 

“ what is it ? ” even that sounds pathetic to her ears, but it’s too late now. “ there are easier ways to get my attention. ”

[chaostides]

                              ༘⋆｡ let's  get  trope-y.

@myrdir/ @svartr (zsin): " i don't care. i want to keep you safe. "

❝       can't  you keep  me  safe  more  conveniently ?     ❞

she  might've  assured  him  that  his  role  stood  on  ceremony,  that  her  father  spent the better part of the last few years  liquidating  coin  like  it's  going  out  of  style  &  that  means  she's  hardly  at  the  top  of  anyone's  hit  list... but  doing  so  is  tantamount  to  admitting  herself  &  her  family  as  lacklustre,  boring as bumpkins,  so  she  doesn't.

to add insult to  injury,  despite  the  leaden  layers  of  numerous  petticoats  &  jewel  encrusted  skirts,  she  can  defend  herself in a pinch  –  he  needn't  breathe  down  her  neck  –  though,  she  also  doesn't  dare  breathe  a  word  about  the  storm  thrumming  just  beneath  her  skin. 

alara  sighs,  trapped despite the sprawl of rooms open to guests, & without  slowing  her  determined  stride,  stomps into  & through the  empty music room,  around the ebony filigreed harp & matching piano to the heavy dark curtains, all the while trying  to  remind  herself  that  it's  nice  to  have  someone  worry,  even  needlessly,  about  her  well - being.  ( even  if  he  is  being  paid. ) 

but,  the  party  is  in  full  swing in the great hall & the ballroom, even the gallery,  & the din still audible in here as most  of  the  manor  devolves  into  raucous  delight. she's missing out  &  it's  a  little  difficult  to  properly  enjoy  herself  with  a  shadow.

❝       at  the  very  least,  i  need  to  be  able  to  move  more  than  five  feet  from  your  side.    ❞

[demonwebs]

card of winter. sender finds the receiver dying of frostbite and gathers them in their arms to warm them.

* ☔ : action prompts inspired by FANTASY, NOBILITY, ETC.

I can handle the cold, he'd said; prideful creature such as most of his kin, a high overestimation of his endurance, he soon comes to realize as the tips of his fingers go numb, then his toes—his legs. When had he crumbled? He does not quite remember. His refusal to go back and ask for aid certainly not had not helped the situation. When Zsin finds the him, they are crumbled into a shadow of their former, bubbly self, thin limbs covered in a flimsy blanket of pale snow, outlined in a ghastly, meaner light that barely makes it through the clouds above; winter spilled down from his scalp, fanning out under a torpid cheek, pressed to the ground below, blending entirely with bleak palette cushioning him in an icy embrace.

Paler still than his usual self, he stirs, new snow sitting on top of his ears and frosted lashes in thick, frozen dollops as he attempts to blink, peering through bleary eyes to see a shadow below; he tries to grumble something vaguely hostile but his body had already been begrudgingly hoisted up like a fluffy pillow, cradled into his arms. He nuzzles into his shoulder, half grumbling until it morphs into a soft, gentle purring, all the same seeking that bodily warmth—his eyes closing, nose hiding into the bump of their shoulder.

He'd deal with the embarrassment of this predicament in the morning.

[duelblades]

xoxo

AS IF HER HUSBAND WOULDN'T GET A FULL CARD. 10/10 NO NOTES.

she's also checking her watch for when that sparring / training session together is going to start 💜

ARE YOU EMILIA'S TYPE?

[saintsdawn-a]

coughs.

↬ are you florence's type?

the fact that he's willing to put up with florence waking with the sun is a true testament of love

[wolfbanes]

ㅤRE: AH — YOU'RE GOING TO LEAVE A MARK. ㅤCC: @myrdir.

WOLFGANG SMILES AGAINST THE SKIN OF ZSIN'S THROAT. "I won't." Not unless Zsin asks. Until then, though, Wolfgang's mouth from Zsin's throat to chest is soft, sweet, and not at all chaste, tongue and teeth from Zouin's sweat-slick sternum to, Wolfgang's knees now hitting the floor, a twitching abdomen illuminated by candle light. A midnight thunderstorm gales against the window, water clinging to Wolfgang's half wet hair. Wolfgang's lavishing ministrations halt, however, with a nuzzle to Zsin's lower abdomen — affectionate, assuring. "Tell me what you want." Through eyelashes half wet, too, with rainwater, Wolfgang glances at his would be killer. "And I'll give it to you, assassin."