#secondsovereign

[creationkissed]

EVERYYEAR without fail, funds are siphoned from his personal accounts for a singular reason, transferred into an account without fail for a specific reason. He's funded it since Second Eruption, an account solely dedicated to funding the recovery of Schariac artefacts for a single beautiful reason. To Kiana he'd gifted as many of the Kaslana records as Anti-Entropy could recover, yet for Durandal, Bianka, her gift was far different, records of every holder of abyss flower, pictures of a youthful Cecilia, images of Bianka's early childhood that Siegfried had lost in the past, all in an ornate ivory white box with gold trims, topped only with a card signed with neat handwriting.

"To Bianka

To make up for many a missed birthday.

-Joachim Nokianvirtanen"

Birthday Stuff!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

It had already been sitting at her desk by the time she returned from a mission. A delicate white box—a stark contrast to the messy folders and files she had left scattered all over it from the night before.

Her heart had briefly skipped a beat with worry at first, unsure of what could be in it or who it could’ve been from—but she was certain Rita wouldn’t have allowed just anyone to sneak into her room to set the present down, much less leave something so pristine in the midst of all the mess. Still, unease lingered until she approached closer, finally catching sight of the shortly written letter then—

Joachim Nokianvirtanen. She huffed out a sigh of relief, lips already curling into a smile as she took her seat so she could better inspect the present.

Bianka still found it quite hard to get used to greeting her birthdays with someone other than her adjutant, truth be told. And to even receive presents like this… It may be silly, but a part of her still felt guilty that others would go through the trouble when her birthday had been something she’d come up with without much thought. A false date chosen with a mere nonchalant shrug of her shoulders.

At least, she was beginning to ease into it now, bit by bit.

Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against the smooth surface, carefully lifting the lid up.

Inside, nestled on a bed of soft, paper and tissue, were several items. A collection of photographs, already turning yellow with age but still well preserved nonetheless. The first photograph she saw was one of herself—a younger version of her, no older than six, perhaps, a billion-watt grin painted across her features and her dress caked with mud as she held out what appeared to be a huge beetle.

The next photograph caught her breath. It was a picture of a woman she didn’t know, though there was something familiar about her face—a warmth in her eyes that felt strangely intimate. The woman had her arm around Bianka, her face soft with affection, and already the valkyrie could feel a bittersweet ache welling up in her chest. Cecilia Schariac. Mother, whispered, the word strange and unfamiliar on her tongue.

Bianka gave the rest of the photographs a cursory glance, her fingers trembling slightly as she flipped through them. Each captured fragments of a life she couldn’t fully remember but instinctively felt a part of… Memories she didn’t know even existed. It… It was overwhelming. Bittersweet. A hazy nostalgia masked with melancholy.

Closing the box with care, Bianka held it close to her chest, whispering a quiet thank you to Welt for having given her such a precious treasure.

[philiaes]

@secondsovereign wrote:

[ HUDDLE ] - There's not much to be said for privacy at a time like this, and as what little warmth the sun can offer fades away, you've been advised to hunker down with someone you don't so much mind in your personal space. Or at least try learning not to mind them... Nothing a little bit of sharing body heat can't fix, right?

THE PINK HAIRED YOUNG WOMAN IS FAMILIAR... yet she is not familiar to him, but rather the key at his side, a phantasmal existence that it whispers of familiarity and unfamiliarity. Yet the man of three eras does not begrudge, not when she seems to be just as out of sorts as he does, in not so familiar ways. The eyes that dart around the room are not untrusting, merely... curious, almost unusually so for someone that has seemingly travelled the golden rails. Yet she settles on him, looks at him with something that can be considered familiarity so he holds the blanket open. In a way he's reminded of March, yet there is something older there, a life lived or to be lived, and so he holds the blanket as she approaches curiously, nodding in silence as she sits and settles beside him, watching people come and go as if content merely to be a witness. Even his connection to the Nihility is almost silent, as if the girl is an engima even to THEM. "Tell me, child, have you ever had Hot Chocolate?" A simple question, gloved digits reaching up to fasten the blanket around the almost snow-white dress. He need not introduce himself, nor does he expect her to do so, content to share the heat generated by his caw until the distant dawn comes. No, Welt Yang needs not know why she feels like a mimetic entity, content to offer a hand to the young woman travelling the endless road of life with little complaints.

Oft is a face seen again in memory, and yet here is one she only knows from within it. Not her own, of course, but across fragments she has seen in the lives of others. When she smiles at him, she does not expect him to know her, and yet he extends a silent invitation regardless. Cyrene hums, sweeping her skirts beneath her as she sits.

"Hot chocolate?" She parrots, watching his hands where he settles the blanket as if studying the care with which they move, measuring it against an idea of him drawn by experiences of another. He doesn't ask her questions, not her name or who she is or how she knows him, and she thinks she likes this first meeting that feels more like the dozenth. 

"I've had chocolate," fingers curl in a hem, as though it needs any more coaxing to remain where it has been laid, "but would it not simply be melted, then?"

Her laughter is soft, private, like this is an inside joke she has always had and perhaps he has always known. Neither are true, but she carries herself as though they could be nothing else.

"If you're offering," she looks to him, eyes glittering, "I'd be happy to share."

[eachdawn]

[STARS] - (DM thinks she's so funny)

The Herrscher steps slowly towards the white haired young man, the cups of hot chocolate held firmly in his grasp. He can't help but remember the words he shared with Acheron over a year ago, of a thousand thousand worlds with similar faces and similar destinies, of the man who became Icarus as he faces the young man that seems so out of place here.

He looks so young compared to the man Welt knows, and yet the eyes seem so familiar, that faint tiredness like he's lived through loss and become the pillar to hold up the sky. So Welt resolves himself to share the burden, even for a moment, to encourage the man before him to carve out his name, his hopes, and his legacy into a distant branch, to live a life deserved if even for a moment.

Have you lived a long life, have you made those unbreakable bonds, have you been happy? More and more Welt stops himself from asking, instead settling beside the man who he has yet to introduce himself to and offering the hot chocolate left untouched. "It's your first time on Jarilo-VI, isn't it?" Hello, words unspoken, hand extended with the sealed cup as he resolves himself to relax, to witness and remember the man before him as a nameless should.

"Ah, where are my manners? Call me Welt, I'm... here as a member of the Astral Express." It is only right to introduce himself properly, with a soft smile as he nods towards the hot chocolate. "Take it, the cold can be... offputting for people that have never been here before."

he knows it's not the vortex of genesis, but the light show above his eyes is reminiscent of it: a false sky of sorts, still captivating, shimmering. he is not from here: the kind of technology he's seen thus far is not like that in his home, nor is the manner of dress, let alone this subterranean way of life.

for all the unfamiliar technology that keeps half the inhabitants of this underground community bustling, things seem... simple here. arms fold loosely as pale blue continues to watch warm light twinkling on the ceiling: footsteps approaching gradually pull his attention away when they slow and then stop nearby.

a blink --- a smile: he doesn't know the man who's come to stop next to him, then notices the cup coming towards him in the stranger's hand. his own turns to accept the cup as this mr. welt finishes speaking: he lifts it slightly to try and figure out what exactly it is, aside from something hot. "thank you, mr. welt --- and no, I think I've been here before, actually. just not this part of the planet..." there was something he vaguely recalls from another strange occurrence; something small moving in the snow, with the stones he'd seen in the city above making high walls. was that his own memory, or... "it's nice to meet you, though: I'm phainon. I think I've heard of that group before... the nameless, correct? I've met a few of your people." after deciding that the scent from the hot cup didn't seem like anything he'd dislike, phainon removes the lid entirely, and takes a slow sip at the rim.

not just hot, but sweet... rich. more warming than refreshing. after a breath, phainon turns back to the projection of stars overhead. "say, these stars here that they're projecting... do you think they are meant to be representative of anything in particular in the true sky, or are they just made at random?"

[fanfaire]

[WINDOW SHOPPING] - Welt isn't looking for anything in particular, strolling along the high-street that reminds him of old, like the streets are familiar to him. His familiar cane looks more akin to an umbrella, giving the imagery that the man truly belongs amidst the brand named stores from across the cosmos.

It isn't until he's stopping in front of the famed Penaconian Suit Maker, Roberto Oakley's window, that he notices the young woman beside him. Her style of dress is familiar, reminding him of that of Fontaine's and yet, Joachim doubts someone from that world could have arrived here so easily. So the Herrscher speaks, calmly and softly, without the intent to startle the woman he'd settled beside. "Rather beautiful of a dress, isn't it? A rumour on his home world says he took inspiration from the stories of a distant world's Opera Singer." The blue isn't quite to his tastes, and yet he can't help but let his gaze linger in awe of the tailor who had supposedly been the retainer to the Oak Family for an Amber Era.

THERE IS MUCH TO BE UNDERSTOOD ABOUT A PLACE　✧　through the tastes of its residents. to that end, she's walked the streets of empyrea's commercial district for most of the afternoon——shopping, yes, in a sense. but not, for once, with much of any intent to purchase anything, but rather in a bid to understand and anchor herself in the new realities around her in still one of the first times traveling purposely on her own.

yet, four or five hours pass, and still she feels bafflingly no closer to grasping at the core of this ' planet ' and its people. it's not until she stands in front of what must be the two dozenth store or more that she comes to a sudden realization why upon seeing the display sign for a rack of notable dresses, one of the selection arranged on a mannequin in front of the street-facing window.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ROBERTO OAKLEY

the name is writ large, evidently that of a famous designer——and, startlingly, something that pings a faint bell of recognition. where has she heard it before? not fontaine. . . oh wait, yes. . .

how strange. hadn't she heard it in that bizarre place she'd ended up once? where the street signs had talked and yellow meka dogs manned bars and acted and spoke just like people?

before she can put that together into whatever it meant, a voice speaks up beside her. so caught up in her own reverie had she been that she'd barely noticed his approach, but the man who stands next to her now couldn't be talking to anyone but her, surely. fortunately, being from fontaine as she was, furina thinks little of a stranger striking up conversation out of nowhere. "its design is interesting," she looks between the man and the object of both their current attentions, examining it anew for what it was, then the name of its designer again. "i'm curious to see something like this here. i'd thought things would be more. . . " she isn't sure how to put it. "local? perhaps i got the wrong impression from the invitation. are you interested in fashion?" she supposes he must be, to say such a thing out of the blue.

[immovablewill]

A platonic [Dice] from (grand)papa

⁀➴ Kiss Roulette ! 3. A kiss on the forehead

Welt Yang has always had his familiar air around him. Warm. Comforting. Like a soft blanket in a cold, rainy afternoon. There’s simply something in the way that he carries himselfーsteady, patient, and unshakably kindーthat Sara can’t help but think that perhaps, just maybe, she could rest some of the weight she forever carries with him. But Welt’s kindness surely has a limit. And it’s a kindness she isn’t sure she deserves.

She watches him sometimes, when he isn’t looking. Not out of suspicion, no, but out of this… quiet admiration she can’t quite put into words. She has long come to understand that Welt Yang is a man of wisdom. His words, his eyes, and the weight of his hand atop her head have repeatedly proven that he sees more than most. Feels more than most. Understands ( does he really, truly, understand her? What a very new feeling, indeed ) more than most.

It leaves her choked up, at times. That he listensーtruly listensーwhen she speaks, his gaze always steady and his responses thoughtful. It’s a kind of attention that many may find simple and trivial, but it’s something Sara isn’t used to. An attention that makes her feel seen in a way that’s both unsettling and deeply comforting.

And then there’s that care in his voice. In his eyes. It’s not loud or overt, but it’s there in the smallest of things and that, too, leaves Sara unsure of what to do next. It’s a kind of care that feels familial, when Sara isn’t even entirely sure what family means. Her life has been defined by duty, loyalty, and the unyielding pursuit of perfection. To her, that’s what a family isーwas, until Kujou Takayuki’s cruel declaration that she’s but a tool to him.

But with Welt, she catches glimpses of what it might be like to have someone who cares for her not because of what she can do, but simply because she is.

And that doesn’t even make sense. Because what is Kujou Sara, if not but another bow and arrow to use in Inazuma's name?

It’s this thought that occupies her mind as she sits across from him now, the soft hum of conversation filling the space between them. She doesn’t know how to thank him for it—for the warmth, for the comfort, for the way he makes her feel like she’s enough, just as she is. Words feel inadequate, and Sara has never been one for grand gestures. But as she looks at him, his glasses slightly askew and his expression as kind as ever, she finds herself breathing out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

Before she can begin to overthink again, she rises for her seat, leaning over so she can reach her gloved hands out to fix his glasses, perching them back on his nose.

And when he looks up to her with surprise in her eyes, but doesn’t shift away regardless, Sara takes the chance to lean down, lips brushing gently against his forehead in a kiss that she hopes could spell all the gratitude she can’t quite put into words.

It’s a gesture that feels foreign to her, yet strangely right.

Somehow, almost every gentle gesture like this, no matter how unfamiliar it is, feels right with Welt Yang.

[immovablewill]

[TEA TASTING] -- Welt is peculiar when it comes to tea, always preferring to stick to the devil he knows and yet he'd be lying if he said that he wasn't the slightest bit intrigued by the idea of tasting the latest varieties to make their way to the harbour.

It's pure happenstance, luck perhaps, that has him spotting the younger woman he'd last seen months prior and yet he's just as quickly walking up to leave a gentle pat stop the crown of her hair. "Miss Sara, such a pleasure, do you care to join me for some tea?" Afterall, he never did get the chance to find her after that tortuous ordeal with the enigmatic director, it's only fair he made it up to her here and now.

⁀➴ LANTERN RITE 2025 !

A blink. Followed by a slight furrow of her brows. Sara was just about ready to question who would ever think of approaching someone in such a rude manner when she suddenly found herself faced with a familiar face, and suddenly, all the complaints she had was gone, replaced instead with a look of surprise; eyes slightly widening, and her lips parting with a quiet “oh.”

Suddenly, the hand on her head felt—… comforting rather than mocking. Warm. Friendly. Golden eyes cast to the ground as she recalled the events from the last time she saw Welt. All the times she had failed their team. All the times he had, nonetheless, reassured her.

She had thought of leaving it for last. Tea tasting, that is. It was sure to be a pleasant experience, after all, and would therefore make for the perfect go-to should other Lantern Rite activities disappoint her. She had prepared a complete itinerary even, everything scheduled down to the very minute, but—

“I would like that.” Her head bobbed with a small nod, a small smile curling from her lips, although she’d kept her head low that he might just miss it. She would be more than glad to miss all the other activities, if it meant a moment with him.

“It’s… wonderful to see you again, Mister Yang.”

[iustitians]

He'd managed to steal a look at the calendar of a rather helpful Melusine on his last trip back to Fontaine, the memorandum stuck to it making it absolutely clear not to forget the Iudex's Birthday, the 18th of December in Sol's Calendar. He remembers seeing the man with a pitcher of the clearest water once, sparking the idea to requisition the Merchant Guild of the Xianzhou to retrieve flasks of freshwater from the seas of Lushaka. The note prepared is carefully written by a man all too grateful for the excuse to write with actual pen and parchment.

"TO: AN OLD FRIEND,

Accompanying this note should be several flasks of water from the seas of a distant world, after all, it's not often one celebrates their birthday.

Your Friend,

Welt Yang"

Where most packages arriving in his office on this day are relatively small, usually containing little more than letters and small trinkets, there is one that stands out among them in terms of its size. Upon a closer (Melusine) inspection, it reveals itself to be heavier, too; and so, instead of having it brought to him by his daughter like most other gifts, Neuvillette opts to get up from the sofa and check it in person at his desk.

The reason for the weight is soon revealed to be flasks of water, prompting a warm smile from the Iudex for a multitude of reasons. Not only is it a gift he is grateful indeed to receive, but also he would have to admit that it awakens something almost akin to excitement within him - it is rare indeed for him to try some kind of water for the first time ever. The revelation of the gift's nature prompts joy and applause from the Melusines as well, as they indulge in water tasting alongside him; before long, one of them runs to the cabinet to fetch several water glasses, a big one for him and multiple ones from a smaller set crafted specifically for them.

... There is also a hint of amusement at the back of Neuvillette's mind, as a part of him cannot help but admire (and appreciate) that these flasks of water managed to make it through the firmament in an undamaged state. Of course, he too has by now sent deliveries beyond the sky

The first of them is soon opened and shared between the Iudex and his wards, revealing an enduring taste of purity that tells a tale of many ages past. He savors it patiently; for now he wishes to only enjoy it, but the history contained within will take him much time, and perhaps all these bottles, to analyze and understand.

Whatever the case may be, a letter of thanks is soon prepared; as is usually the case on this particular day, it combines his formal style of thanks and the charming whimsy of Melusines stickers, and via means known only to him, it manages to find the Astral Express on its journey starward.

[unfxllenone]

Room!

Room ask prompt || Lumine's Room!

Lumine keeps many treasures in her bedroom. Most important of all are the array of photos splayed across the walls.

Of course, she understands that not all these memories will be able to follow her -- she carries very little on her person at any time, and it is not as though interstellar travel is kind to even the hardiest of trinkets. But that doesn't mean she ought to abandon them while she is here.

Instead, she's gained a few corkboards -- not exactly one for every nation, but several all the same -- placed here and there on the walls; frankly, she just puts the photos wherever there's room at this point. There's something about being able to see the memories she's made that makes both her home and the world she's on feel less lonely.

There's also a slowly-filling photo album placed on one of the shelves in her home, mixed in with the rest of the books she's collected. Neither of these things are shown off often, though, even for as prone as she is to sending photos to her friends from various points of her journey. She's a little shy about it.

( A secret? There's a photo she's hidden -- tucked in an envelope in the drawer of her bedside table. Pictured, are her, and her brother, and a man she hardly knows but will never forget.

She doesn't remember taking it, nor why she and her brother both wear the same downcast expression. Perhaps it's better to remain clueless. )