#prmisd

[endaether]

SWEATING BULLETS ( @fatenull ; @prmisd )

[enginaers]

if clive asks you "what the hell is wrong with my soap," you know NOTHING & it definitely WASN'T ME !

❝ i don' know a wit of what you're talkin' about, aelin. your secret is safe with me ! ❞

[telmn]

smoking is bad for u :l

brow’s    tuft    lifts    –    singular    in    disposition.    an    expression    that    levels    ‘gainst    discerned    condescension    at    the    most    minimal    of    levels.    accustomed    to    her    attitude,    well-adjusted    to    the    bite    to    each    word.    or    lack,    thereof,    in    this    particular    case.    a    tease.    he    knows    it    well.    hell,    he    may    very    well    be    the    cause    of    it.    something    to    be    said    of    children    mirroring    those    around    them…    ❝    so’s    that    pinch    in    your    brow,    lass.    careful    —    likely    t'have    your    face    freeze    up    in    a    permanent    frown    like    charon    at    this    rate.    ❞

[feinic]

@prmisd / s.c.

'        please,  watch  out.        '          being  in  sanbreque  always  puts  his  teeth  on  edge.part  of  it  is  the  close  proximity  of  his  mother.  would  she  recognize  him?  the  other  part?  it's  his  fear  of  the  winged  creature  that  sacred  to  the  area.        '      there  are  dragons  near  by  &.  i  do  think  they'll  be  ferocious  if  they  see  us.        '

[endaether]

FIREBALL!

❛ Not this time. ❜

REFERENCING THIS ( UNPROMPTED ) + @prmisd

[unmeiha]

peeking.

  ❝ ...? ❞ Regarding with guarded curiosity.

[endaether]

❛ You missed. ❜

@prmisd gets a one-liner <3

[endaether]

‘   here,   clive !   ’       nonchalant   friendliness   leaks   into   soporific   timbre,   melodic   bell - chime       —       though   disconcerting,   faux   kindness   evident   in   the   half - moon   curve   of   her   smile       —       eyes   lit   up   with   deviousness,   but   clive   is   unused   to   her       &       her   antics.       ‘   i   brought   you   a   gift.   a   candle.   for   your   room.   ’       she   wants   to   add   that   it's an   apology, although   lying   is   something   punishable       —       refrains,   if   only   to   force   the   glass   jar   into   his   hands   with   the   sweetest   giggle   she   can   manage.       it's   a   candle   in   theory       —       a   scent   that   could   only   be   described   as   stink   bug       —       carefully   crafted   in   an   exquisite   glass   presence.

CLIVE EYES THE TEEN SUSPICIOUSLY, baby blues shifting from them to the glass vessel that had been forced into the palm of his hand. ❛ Oh -- uhm -- thank you. It .. must've taken quite a bit of effort to procure this much beeswax, not to mention the clear glass. This is a truly thoughtful gift. ❜ Instincts scorch his gut, a vague but pressing urgency to distance himself from the item. However, it's a candle- what harm could it possibly do?

As he departs, heading towards his tiny bunk, the man reflects on the oddities that have been plaguing him as of late. Strange occurrences that seem to be following him; no one else. Small and harmless happenings, but deeply inconvenient in nature. This candle spurs these recollections, for some odd reason. He recalls his bath a few nights back, the soap as hard as a rock and unwilling to create any suds. After washing with only water, he'd turned to the dining hall for a warm meal. Clive's countenance twisted once the spoon entered his mouth, eyes watering as the absurdly salty soup is swallowed. He had reached for a tankard to clear the taste, only to be met with the suds he sorely missed in his bath. Clive didn't miss them now - his tongue assaulted on all fronts. Every witness declared there had been nothing amiss with their meal. Clearly, he was being targeted by someone. Since then, there had been a mishap with the bed sheets (all of them were too dirty for use, including his own), Charon had uncharacteristically misplaced her potion stock [reappearing only once Clive leaves for his outing, woefully unprepared]. Thankfully, he had only returned with a scratch. According to Cid, he would 'look into' the sabotage. Was there a knowing glint in his calculating eye?

Upon entering the bunk, Clive carefully peers around the room: behind the door, searches his sheets, eases the lid of his storage chest open to trip any traps. All clear. Only then does he shift his guarded gaze to the contents in his hand, an uneasy trepidation as the tiny lid is cracked ever so slightly. A second passes with no punishment. The warrior almost has time to relax, before the insidious contents lash at his nostrils. PURE STINK ATTACKS HIS NOSE; HIS EYES; HIS LUNGS; THE SKIN AT HIS FACE. Even the ink of his brand rebels deeper into his skin. Clive would have been sure it cracked the wyvern poison carefully weaved into the binding of the tattoo, if not for the fact that he still lived ( but only barely ) after he slammed the lid closed.

❛ Aelin, ❜ he hisses once the coughing spell slows. ❛ I should have known. Only they would be childish enough to go to such lengths. ❜ Murder seemed quite appealing at this very second, as his eyes and throat sizzle with agitation; his countenance splotched by the aggressive fumes. ❛ You can't kill a kid, ❜ though the words seemed unconvincing even to his own ears. Suddenly, the Cid's dismissive behaviour made all the more sense. He knew only his daughter could be behind this.

Was Cid's protection enough to keep Clive from barrelling down the stairs in search of the devil? Not today.