❅ what do they usually wear when they’re not working?
All depends on the occasion. He will lay around his room in his underwear if he isn’t really doing anything. He will wear comfortable yet fashionable clothes when going out. If there is a truly special occasion he will dress up for sure in a suit or whatever is most fitting.
Thank you for the ask @rhinvan!
(I should have gotten a shot of his boots in this outfit. I love them!)
4♦️ - Is your muse more of the patient or instant gratification type?
Grant most certainly would be of the patient type! In fact he wouldn’t really know much in the way of gratification, being the most concerned and caring about how he can help others rather than himself.
Tarkhan looks so incredibly severe, and Xiaohu knows that is absolutely not the case.
It can’t be.
He’s with fucking Esen.
Perhaps this is simply the way of Auri men to be this way outside of home.
She tests this theory of his hidden congeniality one night when she steps through the Enclave’s kitchens and catches them at the dining table.
If he does anything, he’s an ass; if he doesn’t, he’s alright. Esen is not to be considered in this equation because either end of it - she’ll laugh. So when she passes by them, her arms free of the Lotus’ delivery…
Her hand brushes along the smaller one’s shoulder, follows the branch of the other’s arm raising to touch her in turn, down to push off fingertips-to-wrist. And with that, Xiaohu raps the backs of her fingers gently across the bulb of his nose as an Auri farewell playfully comes from her.
As she saunters on towards the grand doors of the manor, she can hear the bemused gravel of his grunt underneath the brightness of Esen’s chuckle.
🥁 - A song with percussion that I associate with my muse
(meep the emoji won’t load onto my laptop *sobs*)
This oneeeeee. “The Hunters” from The Last of Us. This gives me both hunter vibes and hunted vibes all at the same time and it. Suits. My. Cats. BOOOOTTHHH.
Muscle memory, mostly. The physical recovery time was long, actually, and longer still until the idea of leaving the room he found safe didn’t turn his stomach inside out. For a long time his muscles and his horns and his tail and his scales did almost nothing he wanted them to. He ate very bland food. He rested. It took a long time.
He knew how to walk. He knew how to speak. He knew how to use chopsticks, eat with his hands, forks and knives somewhat less so. He knew...
There was
a war.
Something he wanted
to run away from.
(There’s still a war.)
Someone in this kitchen takes care of the knives, but still he found one that needed a sharpen, and he did that easily. That was a sound he remembered, metal against stone. Next time he was in Limsa he bought some daggers. Dull, old ones, and that was most of what he’d saved up. But he knew--
How to
sharpen.
And that surprised him. He said, “I’m a prince,” because if you could be anything, you’d be a prince wouldn’t you? And strangely enough when he “hired” his “guide” the namazu believed him, and then it all got out of his hands, because if he could be a Prince then he wouldn’t be Afraid because princes in stories were always brave. Sons of kingdoms inherit their empires because they are good men, not because their fathers have armies.
(What about the son
of the enemy?)
Sons of kingdoms travel to the ends of the world, not because they’re afraid back the direction that they came from, but because they’re learning new things, seeking a royal wife, seeking a good time.
It doesn’t matter if anyone believes him.
(Who is your father?
What is your
name, really?)
If you were to ask him to explain it. Houmei, tell me how to attack, tell me the best spots, tell me the movements, tell me how you use your knives, he might gesture vaguely. “The throat?” he’d say. “The eyes? The groin? Such is not for a prince to know, ha ha!”
But when he holds the knives, he knows he can use them. He can feel it, like the time he grabbed a plate before it fell: quick reflexes. He knows and smells the blood. The blood, like the sea, like the sharp, bitter cordite, he knows them. As sure as there are words that make bile rise in his throat, he knows them.
Jaaster: “Jani? He’s...distant. Feels a little cold.” When he pauses and his eyes lose focus, the questioner’s prompt startles him, and he shakes his head vigorously, waving away with both hands. “N-no, that’s not it! I just...he reminds me of some teachers I had. They were really strict. High expectations, and they let you know right quick if you didn’t live up to them.” A shudder, then a grimace. “I hated school.” After a few more moments, he blinks, then lets his head fall in his hands. “I’m doing a real bad job at this. Ummm...oh!”
He sits straight up, a big grin on his face. “I’ve heard him play a few times when I’ve passed his room! He’s really good with a violin! It’s sad, sometimes, but...still good...” The grin fades as he trails off and looks at the floor. “Maybe that’s why he feels cold? Dad always did say the best music comes from the heart. I wonder what happened?” He ponders that for a moment. “Whatever it was, it must have been hard, for him to play like that. Must be strong, too, to still help people like he does.”
Vander: “Entirely proper, our Master Janijaire. Exceedingly measured in discourse and action, and so very mindful of his manners.” Vander stops swirling the drink in his glass and glances over apologetically from his sprawl in the chair. “Right, something nice. My apologies.”
Sitting up, he leans forward, elbows on knees, holding the glass in both hands between his fingers as he thinks. “Well, he’s quite protective, which meshes appropriately with that fatherly air of his. Clever, as well, to adopt such courtly manners so wholly without having been born to them. Everyone around him trusts him to do what is right...oh, the trouble that man could cause!” He leans back with a disappointed sigh. “If only he knew how to have fun.”
19. Would your character be the kind to get into fights? (physical or verbal) Would they be a good fighter or cave in rather easily?
Ferazhin Mercile gets flattened.
Immediately.
Although she doesn’t go picking fights and is much more likely to roll over and apologize--after all, everything is her fault--Ferazhin also knows intermediate thaumaturgy. Which she’s inclined to use when angry.
And in the midst of angling to use it, she’d realize what she’s about to do, hate herself immensely and get flattened.
Verbal arguments, however, she’s more likely to get into, especially if that spoiled brat streak of hers kicks up. Not that she wins very often; it’s far too easy to remind her that everything’s her fault and watch her crumple.
15. Have they ever had their hair washed by another person?
“My hair is washed by me most days though when I am in need of a barber they will wash it then. Now is this question comes with the intent of a more intimate washing, I would have to say no though I have had a others in my shower before. Washing hair we were not.”