#verse: unknown.

[ordervessel]

ㅤ𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬  𝐢𝐬  𝐡𝐞  𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐧  𝐭𝐨  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐬𝐞𝐚  𝐚𝐧𝐝  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐯𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬  𝐨𝐟  𝐢𝐭,  a  blue-grey  abstraction  stretching  nigh  unbroken  along  the  horizon.  Most  days  are  the  waters  calm,  though  he  waits  for  the  coming  of  a  storm,  when  the  tides  churn  white  and  the  violence  of  a  sleeping  god  is  made  known.  ‘Tis  passing  strange,  his  fascination  with  the  waves,  when  no  child  of  the  ocean  is  he  as  he  is  a  child  of  nothing.  Motherless  as  he  is  fatherless,  with  no  history  to  claim  his  own  save  for  what  he  makes  for  himself.  

ㅤRadagon  supposes  in  want  of  aught  else  to  do,  the  sea  is  a  worthy  diversion.  Thus  does  he  walk  along  the  piers,  the  stone  beneath  his  feet  cold  and  biting  for  how  the  sun  shines  warm  upon  his  back.  There  is  a  passing  resemblance  in  the  architecture  of  the  island  to  that  of  the  royal  capitol  that  he  knows,  if  only  at  an  off  glance.  ‘Tis  in  those  stark  differences  in  which  he  settles,  comfortable  only  when  he  is  out  of  sorts.  Mayhap  for  that  reason  alone  is  he  here,  stared  at  and  judged  though  left  to  his  own  devices.  

ㅤA  glint  of  gold  draws  his  attention,  faint  for  what  it  is  —  gold  threaded  through  cloth,  in  a  style  he’s  not  seen.  Though  is he  a  magpie  drawn  forward  by  the  gleam,  ignoring  the  owner  in  favor  of  the  gilded  detailing.  “Thou hast  created  this  by  hand,”  he  observes,  though  he  yearns  to  reach  forward  and  touch,  he  knows  better  at  least  to  keep  his  hands  to  himself.  “Impressive,  for  the  detailing.  Many  an  hour  would  have  been  spent  to  achieve  such a pattern.” ⸻ @pixieberrytea

[volot]

@hclloffcme​ [ cynthia ] ┇ starter call!

an ugly welt cracks through the orange-dyed sky, the sun beginning to sink below the horizon.

a resounding swirl of thunder means little to the alpha pokemon as they grind their teeth, the ursaring far more preoccupied with the human who has invaded their territory. who they are, or what she is doing here is a trivial fact in the grand scheme. the buzzing sensation of rage that settles in their chest, and the static that sloshes around in the forefront of their mind, is of higher priority. teeth bared, they let out a single snarl of warning before they charge forward when she’s taken one step much too close. the ground tremors with their incoming dash, foliage crushed underfoot as their claws raise, mouth drawn open to slash and bite---

---until a blow strikes them twice across the chest, their sharpened limbs whistling through the air with movement. with the hits connected, and painfully so, the normal-type staggers back in a recoil. their growl of displeasure and hurt is spat not at cynthia, but instead the pokemon who stands before her -- a garchomp, high and mighty. staying solid in the space he has taken up in front of her, his arms are drawn back into a defensive stance, a glance thrown over his nearest shoulder.

a moment lingers, one much too long, the evening air kicking upright. garchomp’s gaze, while stern, tinges with confusion and skepticism, as a huff billows from their nostrils.

stay back, he tries to say through posture alone.

[42piece-aaa]

It is within the sand dunes of Tatooine that Luke finds a girl, bare, half buried in halcyon grains. Her back has reddened with the suns. She seldom lifts her head when the man approaches, but her are eyes sharp for someone who seems to have spent hours in the dog day sun of the desert.

❝Wa…. ter….❞, comes her chard voice, pleading, grating from the sand and heat.

@lightcreators

[ordervessel]

"there is no other choice ."

ㅤ𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞  𝐚𝐧𝐝  𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭.  𝐓𝐡𝐞  𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞  𝐚𝐧𝐝  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.  And  the  choice  that  lies  between.  Writ  upon  between  the  pages  of  a  book  belonging  to  a  faraway  realm  are  the  words  of  his  law.  Founded  through  years  of  hard  study,  a  man  and  a  god  both  hoping  to  unravel  the  stars  and  from  it  learn  the  way  of  his  world.  Such  are  the  immutable  truths  that  have  and  shall  ever  exist  without  the  touch  of  man.  Even  so  are  they  all  bound  within  its  weave.  Himself  included.  They  make  their  choice,  be  the  blade  or  be  the  wound.  

ㅤㅤThis  one  has  chosen  the  blade.

ㅤ“There  is  always  a  choice.”  He  sits  in  impassive  observation,  no  more  keen  to  impose  his  will  to  his  surroundings.  The  deed  has  been  done.  A  thing  dead.  The  wound  that  no  longer  bleeds.  He  looks  to  the  Warrior  of  Light,  lacking  judgement  or  mercy.  He  is  not  the  god  of  these  lands,  but  well  does  he  understand  what  laws  that  exist  here  too.  “Act  not  so  grave,  for  they  hath  made  their  choice  too.  ‘Twas  your  life  against  theirs  and  no  creature  should  choose  death.”  

[ordervessel]

i know what's coming . / from varian!

ㅤ𝐎𝐧𝐞  𝐛𝐲  𝐨𝐧𝐞  𝐝𝐨  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬  𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥  𝐚𝐬  𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬.  Pale  gold  streaks  of  light  that  blink  across  the  skies.  Beautiful  as  it  is  haunting,  knowing  full  well  each  flash  of  brilliance  is  the  birth  of  a  horror  upon  these  lands.  Each  fall  but  another  blow  to  a  body  already  broken  and  bleeding,  knowing  no  respite.  What  history  has  he  gathered  of  these  people  and  their  home  is  sparse,  but  he  understands  that  war  is  their  constant.  War  and  violence  that  must  sit  at  their  side  from  morning  til  night.  At  what  point  does  one  stop  numbering  the  dead.  

ㅤBeneath  the  light  of  another  falling  star,  one  that  crashes  too  near, Radagon's  features  are  ever  impassive.  These  are  not  his  lands,  these  are  not  his  people,  and  so  his  apathy  is  warranted.  Save  for  but  the  turmoil  writ  clear  in  the  king  who  stands  at  his  side  now.  A  wolf  that  strains  against  its  leash,  the  leather  creaking  and  tearing  against  such  agitation.  What  is  it  like  to  care  so  much  for  one’s  own  people?  Raya  Lucaria  and  Leyndell  itself,  he’d  served  as  a  ruler  of  sorts  for  both  and  still  his  heart  had  no  room  for  the  denizens  of  either.  “Truly?”  Another  flash,  another  star.  A  cold  and  brutal  light.  “Then  thou’rt  a  man  tempered  in  the  flame  of  storied  battles  to  know  tell  of  what  is  coming.”  The  crash  of  the  star  is  far  more  than  a  thunderclap,  deafening  even  from  a  distance.  Yet  is  it  an  impending  storm,  roiling  clouds  nigh  overtaking  the  city.  He  turns  from  the  spectacle,  hammer  already  in  hand  and  corrects  himself.  “What  has  come.”  

[ordervessel]

ㅤ𝐀𝐧  𝐚𝐠𝐞  𝐚𝐧𝐝  𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞  𝐡𝐚𝐝  𝐡𝐞  𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧  𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤.  Bound  and  imprisoned,  with  breath  held  to  only  the  scent  of  the  great  tree  dripping  in  gold  and  grace.  How  fitting,  how  devasting,  that  the  radiance  that’d  bathed  the  lands  would  house  a  heart  of  beating  gloom.  Lifetimes  stolen  from  him,  centuries  waning  into  decay,  only  to  be  released  to  such  blinding  light  and  to  taste  nothing  but  the  ash  of  a  burning  tree.  

ㅤ‘Tis  natural  then  for  how  much  he’d  flinched  before  the  light  does  he  ever  seek  it.  A  man  starved  for  the  sun’s  brilliant  rays  after  having  been  deprived  of  its  warmth  for  so  long.  He  sits  beneath  a  birch  tree,  leaves  falling  in  red  and  gold  about  him,  feet  dipped  into  the  cool  waters  of  a  river.  With  body  made  whole  once  more,  no  longer  does  he  take  such  sensation  for  granted.  

ㅤHe  remains  silent  at  the  approach  of  footsteps,  gentle  across  the  forest  floor.  Like  as  not  meant  to  be  heard,  thus  does  he  spare  the  visitor  but  the  briefest  of  glances  ere  returning  to  the  task  of  his  hair,  a  red  river  that  spills  down  his  back  and  well  past  his  knees.  Rare  it  is  does  he  leave  it  unbound,  yet  does  the  need  to  tend  to  the  knots  and  tangles  arise  and  his  fingers  comb  through  his  crimson  locks.  “Hast  thou  come  to  ensure  my  continued  preservation?”  There  is  a  hint  of  a  smile,  the  slightest  quirk  of  the  corner  of  his  lips.  “Rest  assured,  I’ve  yet  to  need  a  minder.” ⸻ @enavant

[volot]

@distortsverity​ ┇ starter call!

word travels quick in jubilife. when the sky begins to rip and tear holes into itself, crackles of thunder striking through the morning skies, some duck and cover. others, more complacent, expect that perhaps this is a day where someone, or something, will fall through again. it’d distracted him from his current sale -- lips pursed and eyes veering out towards a hurrying professor laventon, who leaves as quickly as he returns, running on the fumes of his own sporadic muttering. he’d re-appeared as if something were urgent, fumbling up the steps of the galaxy gang building and nearly tripping on the way in.

an exchange of hands and pleasantries were paid with his current customer in a flurry, an excuse passed on to ginter about needing to grab himself a drink, this summer heat is unbearable, noncommittal and met with the guild leader’s usual drab attitude.

it hadn’t mattered. what mattered most was the magnetic pull he’d felt towards the beach, heart thundering in his wrist, his neck, his chest. he’s curious. too curious.

she stands out like a sore thumb. glaring against the rustic colors of the path leading out of prelude beach and into jubilife village, her out of place clothes make it hard to not stare. this is not the first time, no, but like the last time with ingo, she has snatched his interest in seconds. 

“what a beautiful arc!” the commentary comes unprompted from the gateway, the interest dancing in his eyes hidden away by the shadow produced by his hat. almost as if you were reaching for the heavens, is what he doesn’t say, instead greeting this heavensent stranger with a curious grin from behind the pensive grip of his hand. there is something strange about her, volo thinks, that he can’t quite place -- it evades him, brushing against the tips of his fingers and just out of reach. frustrating, but his expression has been long schooled into coy intrigue. “and who might you be, my dexterous friend? yours is a face i’ve yet to see around here.”