Originally from THIS post I was going to YEET myself into peoples inbox for some positivity; due to being sick I wanted to do at least something and the bonus was hopefully making someone smile especially if IRL is kicking their butts in some shape or form. Instead I remembered that VOCAROO existed so I wanted to try make it a little more personal using my recovering voice as that is in better shape than fingers impacted by Neuropathy flare ups are right now.
@visionsofecho : VOCAROO at you!
@crimsontwins : VOCAROO at you also!
@theshytigergirl : Ayo? VOCAROO to you!
@skont : *-yeets VOCAROO to you, rolls away-*
Like I mentioned above my voice is still recovering from a cold but I am still open to recording some positivity on VOCAROO if anyone would like to endure a recovering Australian trying not to cough up a lung to put a smile on someone's face. Simply LIKE and COMMENT here specifying if you would like positivity directed at you, the mun, or a specific muse you rp or BOTH if you truly desire!
azure-steel asked:
“Candlelit Dinner”
With Flins and Varka, like I HAD TO TELL YOU!! make it romantic and sexy and all the things DO IT!!
----
@visionsofecho answered:
Candlelit Dinner || Always Accepting~
The 17th of February.
An ordinary day for most; meaningless for a few others who were blessed and cursed with the immobility of eternity.
But for someone, that meant something more. Flins had only noticed a year prior, when listening casually to one of many conversations amongst the Knights of Favonius stationed in Nod-Krai. Stories of what it could've been to spend that day in town, or even better, back in Mondstadt.
The way humans cherished distinct moments in time was bittersweet in his eyes; pitying them for their ephemeral existence on this earth, while at the same time envying them for the way they could feel about it. Humans were like candles that burned bright and quickly, before being snuffed out by the cold gust of death.
Was that why the tradition of propping candles in their cakes had emerged? He wondered.
But even without knowing for certain, he had worked methodically on his preparations. There was little splendor on the battlefield against the ever-present threat of the Wild Hunt, but Flins understood he had to make do with it. Hopefully, the Grand Master would not be disappointed by the ambiance.
He'd found him napping with his back against the broken remains of a shelter, like he often resorted to when the battle granted no time to set up a proper camp. Stirring the knight awake with only a few words of encouragement, he'd urged him to take his hand and follow... blindly in the most literary sense.
Leading Varka a short distance away, where a private scenery had been assembled with fortuitous materials: two crates to sit on, a discarded, half-ripped flag bearing the banner of the expedition used as a tablecloth, upon which rested two tankards and a single plate on one side.
Flins's specialty. Delicate fish slices shimmer with a gemstonesque, translucent, orange-red glow. A woody, smoky aroma complements the freshness of the fish like the gentle strains of classical music. The precision in heat control reveals a mastery of the culinary arts — a true representation of Flins's abilities.
A far cry from the smoked chicken of Mondstadt bemoaned by the expeditioners, he realized. Not really a cake, either. But at least there were candles. Funerary candles, the kind of which he had plenty to spare from the Final Night Cemetery. Varka would be free to blow over them, or let them maintain the intimate atmosphere of that scene alight. Either way, the Lightkeeper would not mind.
Ah, yes, the table... He hadn't been able to find anything better than that. Cold marble shining dimly against the gentle shine of the candles. Hopefully, Varka wouldn't mind. The soul resting within the grave wouldn't, certainly.
"You may open your eyes, now." With a soft smile, Flins squeezed lightly on Varka's hand, before letting go. "Happy birthday, Mr. Varka."
An excuse to get drunk; that was how the 17th of February had panned out over the past couple of years, to pile into the Flag Ship and sink every last drop they had if the stomach could handle it. Just how many times on this exact date had Varka found himself patting a man on the back while he leaned against an outside wall and purged everything, including his supper, onto his feet?
Were his memory not so foggy in those moments and the days following - hangovers were beginning to last longer and longer these days - he could possibly come up with a number, but he'd settle right then for too many to count.
The point being was that 'Birthday Celebration' was merely a label, rather than the reason, not that this knight had any right to complain, not when the man tending to him and his men was so... easy on the eyes.
So imagine his surprise (read initial disappointment) when the usual knees-up at the local tavern wasn't on the cards that evening when he was all but dragged along to the secluded site of the cemetery for what looked to be a rather unorthodox candlelit dinner on some poor soul's grave.
He would have laughed had it been anyone other than Flins who had seemingly gone out of his way to decorate the place in... his own way, as a grave keeper could possibly tend to do...? He was going to have to ask Saemus if it was usual to have literal parties on burial grounds. He already knew the answer, but Varka was not about to claim such arrogance as to think that absolutely nothing managed to slip past the keen eye of the Grand Master.
Still, an effort had been made, and despite the unusal location of this dinner treat laid out before him there was a warmth swelling in his chest at the mere idea that Flins, one of the most recent of all those he could cast as a true friend, had thought only of him and the meaning of this one specific date in the month of february.
The smile, all but splitting his face in two, was certainly genuine enough as he moved to take the seat offered by the light-keeper, who was still very much easy on the eyes. Perhaps a little too easy for the way he'd caught his own gaze lingering lately.
"My my! All this for little ole me? Ha! I dare say every single one of my birthdays have all come at once, my friend!"
The troubled youth knew that he had to stay alert as Naraku could be sending out more demons for his Shikon Shard as it’s light certainly drew many towards him, he has to be cautious as his very life was sustained by this very shard.
He could pick up a familiar aura, wait, was it Lord Sesshomaru?
He couldn’t tell as he wasn’t as sharp of Kagome with her eyes that could sense the Shikon Jewel shards nearby which included his, he continued to move forth, remaining on edge.
"You know those aren't cheap, right?" Kusanagi let out a sigh, more playfully dramatic than actually bothered since he'd only lit it knowing the Blue King would hate that he was smoking in his little office. Besides, if Reisi was going to replace his cigarettes with more of those annoyingly nonchalant kisses, he really had nothing to complain about.
"I brought you a gift, courtesy of Anna but I offered to drop it off to you personally." He tipped his head with a little hum. "Even left the trouble maker with your minions." And then he proceeded to let himself in to the mans office to wait for Reisi to show up, doing the bare minimum but knowing even that probably still ruffled a few Blue feathers.
"They say keeping busy with a hobby does wonders. Though I'm somewhat surprised myself! It's not every day one could be honored by a compliment from Hazel Grouse."
Accompanied by a wide smile at that, and not a single word of nitpicking or critiquing to be heard. Why, the Bishop was positively glowing in fact! Just what sort of alternate reality had he unwittingly stepped into?
"Well I'm glad to hear it. The color's a lucky guess on my part. Do wear it in good health, as expected from the rest. With all of us having our very own scarf, there's no room for excuse. It also shows you're not all that special, I'm afraid."
Would look pretty silly if only the two of them wore matching scarfs after all.
truth be told, kaminari hadn't noticed much outside of the norm. not that he'd been paying much attention ― the people of sumeru had never been his main concern. there's still too much tension between him and them, and outside of cyno and cyno's friends, kaminari had chosen to read in his spare time instead.
though, now that the general's bringing it up, buer HAD seemed rather withdrawn lately. putting a finger to his lips, he wracks his brain, trying to conjure up any instance of anyone else acting off. of course, in his infinite wisdom, kami's coming up completely blank.
"not that i've noticed," he answers truthfully. "i haven't been paying much attention, though considering we work alongside each other, i should probably change that." the corners of his lips twitch, as though taking his own statement as a joke, but of course, cyno would most likely proclaim that this is no laughing matter.
given that the archon is involved, kami is inclined to agree. thus, the smile quickly fades as he snaps into serious mode.
"you should be less worried about me, cyno," kami adds. "i don't have the ability to be effected by any maladies. you should be more concerned about your own well being, and perhaps even tighnari's and collei's." kami though, is more concerned about collei. given that she used to be incredibly ill, it isn't unlikely that her body would be prone to catching another severe illness.
"would you like me to go check on her, while you talk to buer?"
A courier from Mondstadt delivers a sealed envelope to Pantelone's person. The seal itself, very hard and a peculiar pink colour has left a strange stain on the paper of the envelope, and it has a faint scent of stale strawberries.
The contents of the letter are as follows:
PANTALOON PANETTONE,
I SEE WHAT YOU DID THER.
GOTH HOTEL FULL OF FAT-
UI AND IT'S TIME TO GO
THNK FOR THE MONY AND PEACE OUT
I GOT LOTS OF TITS TILES TITLE
SO DON'T MESS
WITH ME BUT COME OVER
SOMETIME, BIG FAN
Signed: Varka, Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius
Please refer to this little thing me and @visionsofecho made specifically for this ask :3
❝ lord pantalone, ❞ kimiko enters the opulent office of the regrator with ease, as though she belongs there right beside him. ❝ a letter from mondstadt has arrived. ❞ she cleared her throat. a dry, professional sound that carried the weight of her profound skepticism. acting like she had found something deeply nonsensical in her trap. the financial advisor held the envelope between two fingers, keeping it at a distance as if the erratic, scrawled ink within might be contagious. placing it atop his pristine mahogany workspace,
violet hues remove themselves from his documents, glancing firstly to the letter; he acknowledges the symbol of mondstadt 'pon which was split in two. then, noticing her perplexed reaction, he addresses it. giving kimiko his brief attention.
❝ surely it is of little import were you to glean confusion from its message. ❞ a casual remark. how his ability to predict is ever impressive. it hinted disregard, implying to discard the letter entirely into the lit fireplace. however, what sort of humble man would he be, if denying mondstadt his ostentatious reply ?
pantalone's smile remained thin as he opens the envelope to read the letter's contents, but the expression curdled within seconds of reading. he stares at the page, mirroring kimiko's bafflement. his usual mask of cold calculation faltering into a mask of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. a man held aloft by his insurmountable wealth is slowly being defeated by the phrase TITS TILES TITLE.
❝ what is. . . ❞ he is truly at a loss for words. his intellect solving a difficult puzzle that bore no rhyme or reason to its gimmick. a challenge even he could not succeed at surpassing.
❝ it is up to you whether or not we respond back. however, i advise the former process. whenever you are ready, i shall prepare a draft. ❞ her end statement purposeful, knowing full well the regrator's schedule is stuffed with meetings all throughout the day. it is not out of genuine helpfulness that she offers to reply in his stead; it is her job.
pantalone turns the letter over, then back again, squinting at the crossed-out misspelling of his name, as if waiting for a hidden cipher to emerge from the gibberish. for a long, tense minute, the only sound in the office was the ticking of the clock and the quiet rustle of paper. only two hypotheticals emerged: is the fatui declared war upon, or did the grand master invited him to a tea party. anything is possible.
he sets the letter down with the gingerly care one might afford a biohazard, his rings clicking softly against the wood. the world continues to defy his expectations; it is far less sophisticated than he previously hoped. without breaking his gaze from the frantic, jagged handwriting, he signaled for kimiko to take a note.
❝ make it direct, professional, and entirely devoid of acknowledgment regarding the linguistic eccentricities, ❞ he murmured. ❝ draft the following: ❞
kimiko, who already holds a stack of papers along her right arm, removes the pencil tucked under the clip of her board. she nods to pantalone, a silent signal to him she is ready to translate his response in writing.
the following is sent to the grand master's desk within the week:
The Northland Bank acknowledges receipt of your recent communication delivered to our office.
Regarding the matters of lodging and personnel presence within the Goth Grand Hotel, be advised that all operations remain in strict accordance with standing diplomatic protocols and existing commercial leases. Your commentary regarding financial disbursements has been noted and filed within our miscellaneous accounts ledger for future audit.
Be further advised that any future invitations for personal visitation must be routed through the formal diplomatic channels of the Zapolyarny Palace to ensure proper scheduling. We trust this clarifies the position of the Northland Bank and the Fatui.
Regards,
The Office of the Regrator
