#support: miklan

[veiledowager]

❰❰ HURT ❱❱ + reverse

Each cough scraped his throat raw, droplets of hot blood speckled Almedha’s hands. He wanted to smack her arms away and snap at her. If she wasn’t so helpless, she could’ve seared the axe’s blade and its wielder with Banshee. The brigand wouldn’t have been stupid enough to dive in—wouldn’t be on the dirt floor, Almedha cradled safely in his arms.

Whatever cruelty he tried to mustered came out as a weak groan. Miklan cringed at the pathetic wet noise.

It was all her fault.

A horrible dread stops Almedha cold when Miklan falls in front of her; without a second thought, she concentrates a dark volley toward them, conjured from the deepest recesses of her rage, her grief. She screeches, echoing through the encampment, setting off the nearby crows. It's enough to send the rest of the stragglers howling, for now.

Miklan will survive this. She knows this, even as she falls to her knees in the damp dirt, just another stain for her silken gown to bear. Even as tears stream down her face, as she tries in vain to remember the simplest incantation of a healing tome she had breezed through one unhurried morning, she curses him.

Curses him, because he dares to look at Almedha like this. Like she is the reason for his spilled blood, even though he had dragged her out here. He is the stronger one between them, undoubtedly. That makes it his duty to protect her.

That she is worthy of being protected - scalding tears continue to fall along the gash at Miklan's side, her shaking hands failing to summon enough healing light to close it. He will survive this, and he will hate her for it.

[contempenitent]

❰❰ MEDIC ❱❱ + reverse

There's no time to piece together how Mauvier ended up here, the bloodied leader of the brigands slung across his lap. The small band of knights that have accompanied Mauvier have done well to stave off further destruction and bloodshed. The leader's own men have either fallen, or run off.

So why does Mauvier not end this now? It's certainly not for any warmth of compassion to be found in the brigand's face; if it were pity, Mauvier would sooner put the man out of his misery. But something keeps his fingers clinging to his healing staff, through the flailing and cursing.

He's not yet convinced that he won't soon regret it.

[florages]

❰❰ THREAT ❱❱

self-indulgent meme ( still accepting! )

Céline arches a brow at the weapon leveled at her. Either this man underestimates, or simply misreads her—likely both. Of course, she's hardly surprised. Her delicate appearance often did lead to such misunderstandings.

Had she been a year or two younger, she likely would have been terrified. Even now, she admits, she feels her nerves fray at the thought of sustaining bodily harm. But as her experiences over the past year have taught her, what was important is that fear did not stop her from meeting the threat anyway.

"I have no interest in fighting you, or obliging whatever demands you might have." Emerald gaze moves past his weapon, to meet the man's eyes directly. May he be faced with Firene's strong will. "But if you continue to press, know that I will not take well to it."

[veiledowager]

The stench of stale water and curdled leftovers clung onto Miklan. Crouched over, he grabbed the loaf of bread from the altar’s feet. The folk didn’t had any rations for him to take with their coin, nor did the vendors had any food to give in exchange.

Instead, they’d siphon it all up by the feet of a false god for Miklan to pluck like a beggar.

The brigand pelted an empty bottle of ale with his heel as he muttered. “No damn wares, no fucking food—” The hasty ruffling of cloth trailed behind the shrill echo of glass.

Peering over the statue, a veiled woman with deep blacks stood. Great, just what he needed. Company.

The dim glow from the statues’ light bristled down the curve of her dress in a smooth arc. Instead of torn threads or thin wool, glancing down revealed the dark silks swirling around the woman’s ankles.

Whatever retorts died on his tongue as Miklan squirmed underneath jagged stitches tugging his collar together.

The last sumptuous comforts that Almedha has not been able to part with are her gowns and veil, and perhaps for that, she has failed to attract any welcoming glances. She is watched, silently gawked at as she makes her way down the streets that she must come to learn and live by.

Do the people fear her? Back home, that kind of fear would fuel her, take away the smallness and hollowness left in her chest some twenty winters ago. But somehow, in this new land, fear is a barrier. She finds herself wanting to cross over it, to take a poor aproned mother' hands in her own and profess, I am like you! I walk amongst your kind, and I have felt your pain!

But it is impossible, as much so as flying or baring her true fangs. So she walks the streets at night, the alleys and outskirts. And on one of the first ones, she encounters a man at a strangely-lit altar.

He is large and unkempt, redheaded. His face bears a gnarly scar from one end to the other. His eyes are wild and hungry, but something about that hunger echoes her own. He curses and kicks, and stops when he notices her.

He is not like the aproned mothers. He is not like herself, not in an obvious way. But something longs to reach out to him regardless.

"Beg pardon," she murmurs, unused to her own voice meeting the clear village air. "Are you in need of something?"

[lordgaspard]

[ GARDEN ] + [ TEA ]

For once, it wasn't impossible to find the nobleman. When he asked, ball-goers and house staff alike pointed to Lonato's whereabouts. Approaching Lonato with tea in hand, Miklan spoke. "Hey. Find anyone yet?"

“Several students, but they’re of minor houses, and I doubt they would really commit. Of value, there’s… one, really. And that’s only a partial concern, sadly. But I believe I have obtained a mole in the staff of the church itself. She’s lived in the monastery most all of her life, so people likely trust her. And she reminds me of Rhea. Maybe a bastard daughter I can turn against her?”

Lonato sits down at one of the tables, sipping from his tea.

“Unfortunately, time has gone by too fast tonight for me to count on making any more. However, one is more than I was expecting tonight, especially of such value. So regardless, it was worthwhile. And even then, we have proof that I can pull a stunt like this under the church’s nose with little concern from them. More proof of ineptitude. I can likely ramp up my efforts in my classes.”

And there, he was the one in charge. He had control of information there. He could see the value.