#poppyvale

[mysteriae]

[ fingertips ] ✧. prompt : kaede ( @poppyvale ) ft. hermes , accepting

feather-footed and ever the triumphant fugitive, the god's radiantly obscured figure preludes the squall of his entry into the shop of oddities, and the chimes still sing at the door when he pictures himself a languid fixture across the register. ❛❛ i won't bore you with the details, ❜❜ he says, and the scent of a fresh kill swaths the air between as he raises a burlap sack to the counter. within, the three sickles of a rogue kamaitachi, hairline sharp, and no doubt a rare boon worth a pretty penny, if not precious for forging a deadly blade. ❛❛ but know that i nearly lost a leg over these. ❜❜

an inspection was to be expected, but his youthful brow knots curiously when the sack is taken and her interest lingers on the delivering hand. ( has he forgotten how the games of a kitsune rival the bite of a lotus fruit, or is the baring of a throat just part of the discourse ? ) in truth, he is not immune to the grip of suspense, neither her honeyed eyes, nor the sight of her lips descending upon the hardened pad of his finger. there, she places a carnelian-dipped kiss of softest flame, and only then does he feel a sharp sting and see the unseen cuts of careless handling; only then does his ichor swell from the wound, to stain her lips gold and his thoughts scarlet.

hermes never named his price, but perhaps kaede cozens herself to it, attending another finger, and at the third a trickster's keen eye finally catches on. ❛❛ is the trade to be a kiss for each, then ? ❜❜ his hand clams shut and retreats in a moment between blinks, but his grin untethers and blooms, unhindered by the prospect of a slippery barter. ❛❛ if so, i won't collect all at once. i'd like to savor the last when it suits. ❜❜

[saintvampe]

—   for: @poppyvale, lady autumn   |  EVENING - TIME. AN HOUR AFTER THE LAST CUSTOMER HAD COME AND GONE... there is nothing here to interrupt, except for the silent aftermath of duty.   the storefront returns to its natural state of stillness, its shelves pulling themselves back to tidiness without Her having to direct them; jars of product roll back to their homes, repositioning themselves against the strain of customer - fueled movement. here, the pickled livers tighten their cap. there, the strings on boxed mince pies become perfect bows. the vampiristic woman stands behind her glass counter, matriarch of this environment, cash register opened and emptied. she fingers the bills as if they were beloved to her, though they could mean absolutely nothing. she does not do this for pay, after all, but...

❝ i noticed you lurking earlier, when that old hag came in with her screams. damn woman tried to stiff me. ❞ she does not glance up from her task when the other enters, the bell of her door refusing to announce any arrival. that is something she can appreciate: a silent entrance, one devoid of frills. she counts the green in her hand once again before stuffing it neat inside of a small pouch on her waist, her skirt falling as she zips it. ❝ i don't have anything for you today, i'm afraid. Moira's pissed at me – again. HUH. y'think i should apologize to her for biting ? ❞ humor on the tongue, despite the tension between her syllables.

THE REGISTER CLOSES WITH A SATISFYING DING. finally, she glances upwards at the other, her red mouth splitting into a grin. the tips of her nails tap against her countertop and she formulates rock hard words beneath her tongue. friendliness becomes a momentary forte, if only for mere seconds. ❝ i have sherry in the back... do you drink, autumn - wind ? ❞

[saintvampe]

—   for: @poppyvale, buffy summers   |  THE ATMOSPHERE HAD CHANGED WITHIN A FEW HOURS OF OPEN BUSINESS: its shield of cover felt off - kilter, the rug of safety pulled from underneath the feet of every visitor... but the Saint ( ! ) worries that she is the only one to realize. against the far left wall, above neatly boxed cuts of dried ring - fingers ( RINGS STILL ATTACHED, ), the cuckoo clock draws a steady tick - tick - tick as it reaches 12AM. the store limbos between business and emptiness; its owner spends her time tidying up behind glass, throwing the occasional glance, sneered and curious, through the large storefront windows as if attempting to locate the source of contempt. twelve - on - the - dot, a little bird screams. a new face appears outside of the window, and the vampiristic woman does not register her as ghoul. at once, her cleaning is decidedly complete; a case of cigarettes [ a shiny and gold thing ] is removed from her pocket, and from that case is removed a single stick. the woman goes to stand at her doorway, filter against red mouth.

❝ you're a brand new thing, aren't you ? WE'VE NOT HAD MANY FRESH FACES... ❞ says she to the air, to the other. the cigarette in her mouth is lit on its end. the Saint ( ! ) takes a considering drag, tilts her head to a side. the corners of her mouth pull into a light frown.

A PAUSE, AND THEN: ❝ YOU'LL NOT FIND MANY OF THESE PLACES KINDLY, ❞ the woman continues after a spell. in the low - orange light of street - post, she looks almost concerned. vague interest, weighed equally by tense edge, shows against her half - furrowed brow, her watchful eye. abrupt, she stands to her feet and drops the lit stick. her heel hits it, squishes it underfoot. ❝ matter of fact: you won't find any of these places kindly. we're very particular of our visitors. ❞

[alovetold]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY IDA <3333 i hope you have a lovely day my sweet and a very chill year love you lots 💗💗💗

THANK U CORA, angel 💕💕💕 i need a chill year, you’re so right. thank you sm, love you and your blue girls 🌸

[lunaccult]

— @poppyvale as CARDAN: “ i thought it was a good time to pay you a visit. it’s been so long, after all; and we have so much to catch up on. ” // ❝    Who  are  you  again?    ❞  The  fox  is  all  teeth,    all  mouth,    all  gape  in  the  maw  where  hunger  persists.    And  the  High  King  of  Elfhame  absolutely  wreaks  of  suffering  in  all  the  ways  that  set  Stiles  off.    Really,    it’s  no  wonder  that  they  are  scowling,    all  the  better  to  encourage  even  an  idiot  to  back  off,    but  there’s  no  rejecting  the  Folk.    Especially  the  royal  sort  of  Folk.    The  leshy  pretends  he  doesn’t  know  he’s  walking  an  uphill  battle;    it’s  no  good  to  face  things  that  are  similar  to  yourself  when  you  are  in  such  denial  of  your  own  misgivings.    Stiles  is  the  best  when  it  comes  to  pretend.    Cardan  is,    too.

❝    Here,    let  me  save  you  the  trouble.    ❞  Maybe  they  shouldn’t  keep  their  back  to  another  trickster.    Stiles  doesn’t  feel  threatened  yet  though,    only  starving.    Only  aggravated.    That’s  not  unusual.    Certainly  not  with  this  company.    He’s  hunched  over  a  journal,    curled  tight  against  the  hilt  of  a  large  tree  which  they  have  claimed  tonight’s  shelter,    and  scribbling  furiously.    ❝    The  family’s  all  good.    Yeah,    I  haven’t  been  to  church  in  awhile,    but  that’s  on  account  of  personal  stuff.    Sure,    sure,    I’ll  pass  on  that  recipe  for  you.    No,    I  haven’t  quit  smoking.    Et  cetera,    et  cetera,    et  cetera.    There.    All  caught  up.    Move  along  now.    ❞

[lunaccult]

— @poppyvale as NICASIA: “Hmm…tempting, but I am not going to stop.” // Diplomacy  is  not  yet  my  strongest  suit.    There’s  a  reason  Cardan  answers  political  missives  and  I  strongarm  the  Court  when  it  comes  to  strategy  and  conflict–  though  I’m  sure  my  idea  of  conflict  management  is  less  than  ideal  to  most.    I’m  questioning  why  I  am  the  one  handling  this  problem  because  of  that  very  assumption.    Nicasia  still  looks  at  me  like  I  am  a  blight  on  the  realm;    even  fleeting  moments  of  shared  interest  cannot  bring  us  together,    it  seems.    I  can’t  say  I’m  surprised.    She’s  not  my  favorite  person  either.

It’s  satisfying  though.    That  she  has  to  stand  before  me  where  I  sit  on  the  throne  her  mother  wanted  for  her.    I  make  a  point  to  drum  my  fingers  idly  against  the  Land  -  wrought  arm  beneath  my  palm,    as  if  I  had  better  things  to  do.    I’m  no  good  at  diplomacy,    but  I  am  good  at  vexing  the  Folk.    ❝    I  could  make  you,    ❞  I  say,    drawing  from  the  High  King’s  air  of  boredom  when  he  must  sit  through  meetings  with  the  Living  Council.    She  probably  recognizes  the  tactic  and  I  can’t  help  but  grin  for  it.    Let  her  see  him  in  me.    I  hope  it  drives  her  mad.    ❝    I  thought  I  might  give  you  the  courtesy  of  choice,    false  as  it  is.    I  can  just  as  easily  take  choice  away.    ❞