Jan 31, 2025
I might give a little, but you can take it all I might try to run, but just to make you follow
seen from China
seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from Russia
seen from France
seen from Netherlands
seen from Finland
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Ireland
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from South Africa
seen from Libya
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Ireland
I might give a little, but you can take it all I might try to run, but just to make you follow
corporate needs you to find the difference.
8. shed
He gives him the middle finger.
… suspiciously.
Arismont’s trying to be subtle about it.
Something out of the corner of his eye, but…
He sees it through his peripheral anyway, and his lips bend but don’t break. Almost a smile, but… not this time. It isn’t in Otolin’s style to smile at most things anyway.
“Wipe that look off your face.”
Gruff. Annoyed. Good-natured.
“... what look?”
Deadpan. Quiet. Maybe a little bit mischievous.
“The one. You know. That one. You’re about to fucking smile. I can see it.”
“... me?”
“Yes, you. Halone’s freezing tits, you know what I hate most about you, Otolin Stone?”
“... what’s that, Arismont Coultene?”
“I can’t tell what’s going on in that big bald head of yours.”
“... I have hair, you know.”
“Do you fucking think I am looking that close?”
“... yes.”
A growl.
“... Arismont, you’re… you’re perceptive. You hold onto things. You… you don’t forget. It’s like… like a snake that doesn’t want to shed its old skin.”
A pause.
The middle finger has retracted, but it almost begins to unfurl again, cocked like a finger on the trigger of a gunblade.
“Was that a fucking compliment?”
“... maybe.”
He gives him the middle finger.
Not so suspicious this time.
xv. row
what’s the best way to celebrate a new beginning?
for zenos, it’s a fight, a brawl, a spectacular slaughter.
For otolin, it’s peace, it’s quiet, it’s wanting to embrace that sometimes?
it’s not about the ending, it’s about the journey.
but it’s not time yet.
otolin has always wondered when it might be.
a long road of light and dark traveled, and now it just becomes something else. normal, right?
never.
will he ever see it?
yes.
he’s been challenged to do so,
by old friends and enemies.
what’s the best way to celebrate a new beginning?
a gift for Otolin Stone!
Unsung Prompt #4 - Untoward
Hey. Come in. Boss wants to have a drink with you.
The tough-handed Hellsguard reached for Breandan's sleeve when he paused in the doorway. Not grabbing him as much as getting his attention. Suggesting how he could be grabbed if he decided to keep walking.
Breandan paused, perfectly still except for the angle of one elbow. Arced backwards, as if inviting the larger man to try it.
A pair of gold eyes met a pair of vibrant orange ones.
He pulled his arm back and ducked his head to step through the door.
The light was low inside. Dim lanterns on the walls flickering in orange and yellow. A cool stone corridor that opened into a room with a low ceiling.
Card tables and pool tables with men crowded around them.
A man in a hooded robe (purple? red? in the light it was hard to say) holding up one dark corner.
Another man seated at a card table with no card game going.
Breandan approached the table and took his seat uninvited.
"Wasn't expecting to see you here." The man at the table gestured, and that big Hellsguard was there again. Over Breandan's chair, in his space. Putting a glass on the table. Pouring a drink.
He felt the line of tension in his jaw wind just a little tighter. Somewhere in the core of him, the ever-burning coal fire of his spirit smoldered a little hotter. The dragon that lived in the marrow of his bones coiling and wary until the bodyguard stepped back again.
"Wasn't expecting to be here." Breandan reached to pull the glass close. "What do you want."
"Oh don't be so uncouth. It's downright untoward." Came the reply. A folder got shoved across the table, full of papers. "I just wanted your opinion on something."
"Can you afford my opinion anymore?"
"I'll pay for it. I know value when I see it"
As the savviest of businessmen do.
Breandan looked at the table and reached out to flip the folder open. He looked at the sketches of faces and paged carefully through the dossier while his whiskey sat untouched. Then, after he'd taken too long and seen too much of it for safety, he snapped the folder shut and shoved it back.
"No."
"....No?!"
"No. Find someone else to keep their hands bloody for you."
"Here I thought Ishgardians assassinated each other at parties for fun. You've never snubbed my coin before. You going soft?"
"I walked from this." Breandan answered sharply, shaking his head. "I don't do this anymore."
"Didn't recall you having so many godsdamned rules, Ducaille. Last I talked to you, you didn't have so many at all."
"Yeah? Well, They're my employer's rules. I'm not going to break them to come and work for you again."
"Yeah, but....have you considered that - your employer ain't here?"
Breandan took a final look around the room at the figures gathered around. Thought he counted one fewer than before, but in the low light, it was hard to tell. All eyes on him. Hands on weapons or curling at the fingers.
With a quick pass of his gaze, he counted.
Then, looking at the table, he tried counting backwards from ten.
He could almost hear Otolin's halting and patient voice in the back of his mind.
Please...please attempt to de-escalate all situations before resorting to violence.
No...explosions, please.
And no kicking.
"You know what? You're right." A beat.
"I'm not him."
"He's not here."
And he brought his leg up to the underside of the table to knock it over.
No kicking.
(mention: @stone-xiv with his blessing)
“We are all dead. All equal. Broken and aimless and believing we are alive.” ― Catherynne M. Valente
He returned to his rooms. Henriette long ago departed, his mother in her solar, knitting likely, he couldn’t hear the sound of her rocking chair creaking. His father probably in his office. The entire house quiet, all save the sound of wind rattling shutters somewhere and the old manse creaking in protest.
In the bathroom he removed the filthy things he’d been working in all day and climbed into the bath. Usually he remained there for a time, soaking in the warmth. This time, he washed swiftly, wanting his bed instead.
The sound of Otolin’s voice remained with him. The halting way he spoke. Taking time to consider his words. The silence. Silvestre knew these things all too well. How patient everyone around him had to be to let him gather his thoughts. They were nothing alike, the pair of them, and yet they were brothers to something inexplicable. Something forbidden, that even their own minds tried to shield them from.
The gaps in their memories. Silvestre’s far more severe, but Otolin’s just as concerning. The skills they knew, yet knew now how they came to have them. The language. Perfect as if they grew up speaking it. But how could they? Neither of them were Garlean.
Were they?
He curled up in bed, pulling the coverlets tight around his body. He needed to find Otolin and speak to him again. Or Brighid, to tell her what all they learned together. Still a puzzle, but one that suddenly had a lot more pieces to fit together and painted a larger picture.
He just wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that picture was.
(Otolin belongs to @otolin-xiv.)
We're nothing but myths now That neither of us believe in.