#siannyr

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Got lucky enough to win this outfit I’d been coveting for Song since I saw it. I love it in purple.

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Just some bedtime shots of Song in his new house.

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Control

Under a cut for mentions of violence and implied rape.

           Control was a strange thing. There were times he found it every bit as heady as the drugs he doled out to gain it. It made him strong. So much stronger than everyone who had ever underestimated him and called him Smoke's pretty toy. But then, perhaps he was already stronger simply by being living and breathing still when all of them were bones moldering in the desert somewhere.

           But lately he found cracks in his control, gaps in that careful armor and in their way some of them were just as dizzying as the drugs. But they were also terrifying. They made him weak. They made him remember.

           Song's eyes flared open in the darkness, his heart pounding far too quickly in his chest, thundering in his temples. It ached as though it beat like a fist against his ribs, and his breaths came so rough it felt like choking. There were silk sheets under his back, but against them he could feel the roughness of the scars his tattoos concealed, sliding and catching against the smoothness even if the eyes would never notice them.

           It made him feel naked in a way that had nothing to do with bare skin and everything to do with the muscle and sinew beneath it. With the person he was underneath, the name he no longer shared. He would never let himself be Siannyr again. Or Smoke's anything. He was his own.

           He could remember the taste of his own blood in his mouth so clearly he felt it on his tongue, hot and bitter as pain. He could remember the feel of those scars when they had been wounds, fresh and sharp and deep and burning with every movement. He could remember being helpless. The touch of hands he couldn't fight, the press and thrust of a body he couldn't dislodge and that voice whispering dark biting scorn into his ears that took from him everything he'd fought to be.

           'Tell your master what I've done pretty toy. See if he'll pick up the pieces for you.'

           He couldn't breathe. His breath caught in his throat like a stone, and his fingers lifted to claw futilely at the pale skin of it, as though he could tear the memory from him and free his own lungs. A low sound emerged from his lips to accompany the sudden desperation of his silent tossing. A soft whimpering keen that shamed him as soon as he heard it. But he could stop it no more than he could breathe.

           Beside him warmth stirred, a hand reaching out to touch his shoulder. "Song?" Ruin's voice was deep with sleep, pleasant as that warmth against his shoulder. Air entered his lungs in a terrible ragged gasp that hurt as much as it was relief, and left them again in a sob. He shifted, starting to lean in, to roll over into the comfort of rogue's warmth.

           'I didn't spend all this time training you so you would come crying to me for help. If you have a problem, handle it yourself.' It was Smoke's voice this time in his memories, crisp and all too familiar. Reminding him. Handle it yourself. He yanked away from that reaching hand, shoved himself upright in the bed and turned his face toward the wall so that Ruin would not see the shine of those betraying tears before he had dried them.

           "Get out!" He snapped, his voice as ragged as the frayed edges of his control. "I don't remember saying you could sleep in my bed. And I don't need you."

@company-of-crows for Ruin

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Song (right) and Ruin ( @company-of-crows ) taking a little breather from all the murder.

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Some shots of Song (Siannyr) and Ruin ( @company-of-crows ) from their trip out to Port Ratt the other day. It was scenic and dangerous. Song wasn’t a fan of the sea monsters.

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Send me “✒” for a note from my muse to yours Song to Ruin and because I'm greedy: The old man to that irritating feathered brat.

           Song’s handwas a neat one, his writing fluid and quick when he was not making any attemptto make it look like any but his own. The note was a short one, only a fewlines of sharp black ink, written firmly and without hesitation.            Donot look for me tonight, my Ruin. I have private business for a few hours andwhen I want you I will seek you out. You know I will not have any trouble findingyou. And I think you also know that I will know if you follow me. I don’t thinkI need to tell you how very irritated I would be. Take an apple if you like.I’ve left you a small present in the basket beside the bed. I will give you therest when I find you if I’m still in the mood for it.

           He did notsign his name, neither the one everyone knew, nor the one that belonged only tohimself. Instead the pen made the stylized shape of a single iris under hisfingers, the sketch as neat and quick as his handwriting.

           He left thenote atop the couch under the window where the thief was sometimes prone tosit. And as he settled the paper into place atop the upholstery it occurred toSong that it was strange to leave the note there in his own private sanctuaryand feel confident that Ruin would find and read it. A small frown brieflytouched his lips with the thought, a small flash of anger flaring for that tinylittle crack in his control. He had not -told- Ruin he could come and go hereas he pleased and yet he was certain his shadow would see the note.

           He couldhear Smoke’s warning in the back of his head as clearly as if the older man hadstood in the room behind him. His fingers curled briefly on the paper, justbeginning to crumple it, and he snarled, drowning out the memory of hismentor’s voice with his own.  Smoothingthe paper once more he straightened. It didn’t matter. Smoke was not reallyhere. The man’s rigid rules had done nothing at all to preserve his own skin inthe end. And tonight he went to give the orders that take back some of whatRuin had stolen from under his nose.

           "Iwill teach you what minemeans.“

                                                      ***

           Writing wasnot something Yushin had made much habit of in years. His thoughts were notones he wanted to give further life on paper and he had little cause forletters now. But even after several cups of tea the dream still ate at himuntil he found himself tearing an empty sheet from the book he used to notedown his herbs and settling it in front of him.

           His eyesdrifted briefly to the small wooden box beside it where his ink and brushesrested, but the tongue of Calpheon was not one suited to such calligraphy. Inthe end it was the ragged quill he lifted and dipped in ink. The beginning gavehim some pause, and the rest of the writing was rather slower work than anothermight have made of it, each letter carefully shaped, each word considered andmouthed before he set it to paper.

           Feathered thief,

           Be careful. I know you will onlylaugh and tell me that an ‘old man’ worries too much. But I will tell you thatthough I am not old I am wise enough to know that you flirt too easily withdanger. If you dance on the edge of the wall too long the time will always comewhen you slip. I would not like to see you fall.

           There was agreat deal more he might have said if he had had the right words for it. But hedid not. Yushin was not sure how to explain the dream that had jerked him awakeor the feelings it had left, not even to himself, let alone on this raggedsheet of paper he wasn’t even certain how to deliver.

           Be careful. He wrote again. And keep your hands out of pockets they donot belong in.

           At thebottom he began to sign his name, frowning as he thought of shaping the graceful characters withan instrument as ill-suited to writing them as the brush would have been to therest of the note. In the end he thought better of it and simply signed it: Old Man

           When dawncame the folded slip of paper would be found tucked into the door of a womanwho had once asked him if he looked for crows. He was not sure it was the rightplace to leave it, or if it had not been a complete waste even to write it, butthere had been something oddly soothing in leaving it behind.

           Writingcould be like prayers. And as he settled himself back on the canal wall towatch the sun finish rising Yushin wondered if he would not have done just aswell to burn the note and let the wind have the ashes. @company-of-crows (with many apologies for always being slow)

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Song, Starblood (the horse) and moonlight.And a few shots of two -very- handsome ninjas. Song and Ruin ( @company-of-crows ) sitting on top of the statue in Heidel.

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Just some fun shots of Song and Ruin ( @company-of-crows ) from wandering around leveling the other day. Not sure what Song’s looking at in that last shot.