#yharnum

[walkpathe-arch]

[008]   in the aftermath of violence, [Sarkan] wipes blood from [Solya]’s cheek

sizzling whip still in hand, solya flutters tired eyes to a close.  he would mutter the required spell to rid his clothes of mud and blood, but he finds no energy to spend for it. the screeching of carnage has halted, leaving the now dismal party cold and into a near catatonic stupor, stumbling to the safety of the nearest village. most haven't survived the wood at all, their severed bodies scattered and not even worth salvaging. expendable, easily replaced. solya gives no more than a fleeting thought to them.

the touch upon his cheek is sudden, but the warmth of it far too telling for him to wonder who it might belong to.  solya doesn't move, only opens his eyes to look at sarkan and his finger stained with black blood (clearly not solya's own).   '' fussing over me, are you? ''   his mouth ticks up a fraction, but it doesn't land nearly as sharp as usual. whip gone, solya raises his own hand to the ridge of sarkan's collar, singed by cruel flames. he frowns softly. a vivid image stark in his memory, forever ingrained in it:  sarkan crumpled on the ground, looking worse than he has ever seen him, almost deadly pale.   '' you don't look too good yourself. ''

his fingers shift, linger where they shouldn't, curling over the hair at sarkan's nape in the ghost of a familiar grip.  but instead of indulging the past, solya turns his head away and retreats with concealed effort, pointedly not looking at those smoldering eyes and enticing mouth.

'' come find me later, when you stop swaying on your feet. ''

prompt

[riteofrobin]

— “ Don't flinch now. You wanted to see what i'm capable of. ”

[E]xecrate this were they wakened as your brother. Such a gad-witted title; they deprave the ( Robin ) of its soar. Whither ? One wonders. Memories waken with the effigy of Eden, from his mother’s faith: the carved image of salvation into redemption. ❛ You— ❜ Lift a breath. Regard the forgotten through his mask, eye to eye. Apolútrōsis, it tolls within his ribcage, or else it is the body pressed to his, ( Jason’s ) strain borne in bone and heart. The versed acrimony and the untaught absolution, laid upon the scales… which is the heavier offering ? ❛ I’ve seen this shit before. ❜

A study of Jason Peter Todd, by Robin III, ripened by awe and ruth.

As though grace had misspoken, a smile alights, slight as a benediction. ❛ You’re old news. ❜ He labors against motion and yet unthreads himself from the grasp. Hurt, not unto fall, but enough that blood keeps vigil within him. The earth still claims him, breath stuttering in her hold; then the Robin returns, gathers what remains, and rises. ❛ Predictable. Shit you see from the dead. ❜

A laugh. ❛ Ha ! Get it ? ❜ [ @yharnum ]

[j0esten]

@yharnum:   you keep running your mouth.

'' you haven't asked me to stop. i guess my smart mouth is working on you. ''   neil feigns nonchalance as he grins back at andrew, seated at his side.  they both know what he's doing, by pressing the side of his knee against andrew's and talking to him in low russian. little nothings, as well as promises of what andrew can do to him later, after the game they're flying towards. it's the least he can do, to keep andrew's mind off the fact that they are currently miles above ground.

he shoots a glance backwards, to check if kevin is still glaring at him for sidestepping his pre-game talk, but the striker is no longer paying attention, resigned to watch an exy channel on the tv in front of him.  which is just as well;  neil has other things on his mind, namely the blond boy next to him.

'' we're gonna land soon. are you good? ''

[warplanet]

continued from here, with @yharnum

when she hears the tent flap flourish in the afternoon air and sees the eyes of those around her dart upwards, hypatia knows kassandra has joined them. kassandra, a rugged and dynamic warrior far taller than anyone else in the group, has provided many a detail, a fact, a helpful tidbit of knowledge to benefit the baby inquisition— and now, it seems, she seeks something else, something beyond that. who is hypatia to argue against this camaraderie if it benefits both of them?

indulge my cooperation, kassandra offers, and i can help you find ways to slow the venatori. that, alone, makes her advisors nearby stand at attention. they are silent, however, allowing hypatia (so new at this) to do the honors of negotiation. how lucky she is. "you know we'd be thrilled to have you fighting alongside us, kassandra," she offers, and while hypatia tries to hide her elation, it's evident in her smile. she likes kassandra. she admires her. peering upwards at the towering warrior, she goes on. "this arrangement furthers us both. you get what you need, plus a taste of battle as we deal with these venatori, and we get your assistance in tracking them."

she glances at leliana then, waiting for a nod of approval. when it comes, hypatia beams at kassandra. "you are even welcome at skyhold, if you'd like, our base of operations. i did not know your reasons for approaching us at first, but now... i am assured. you're a helpful sort." a bit of her true self peeks in. she prays it doesn't lessen kassandra's view of her. "may we speak in private after this? we can discuss payment."

[blotgydja]

stefan: ❛ well marcus, what to do with you is beyond me. ❜

◗ PROMPT COLLECTED FROM ASSASSIN'S APPRENTICE ░ ACCEPTING.

[ 𝑪 ] ould a true physician still claim to be one if he left wounds of his own making unhealed? Appearing at Stefan's door, like a man tormented by guilt, Marcus has come to beg forgiveness; clearly his surprise appearance at the Grill the past night hadn't been the right move. ❛❛ I hope I don't come off as too forward now ... ❜❜ A crooked smile rests in the corner of his mouth, head cocked to one side and then the other, as if he's considering his options. In the end, he thinks it better to state the obvious. ❛❛ But you could invite me in, ❜❜ is his suggestion, spoken with a slight apologetic tone, as if to assuage the anticipated refusal. Leaning against the doorway as he is, the tip of one of his boots is already inching across the threshold, tapping against the wood — he could just stroll past Stefan, no invisible barrier keeping him out of the Salvatore house. But between of them lingers some sense of frostiness, a distance greater than the measly four feet currently separating them, doorframe the middle marker. He wants to shorten it, not double it by marching in somewhere he doesn't belong.

❛❛ I came to apologise, alright? You have a human life here, and I get it. I shouldn't have shown up like that. ❜❜ He tucks his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, shoulders hunching in his remorse. ❛❛ I came here first, actually. Your brother— nice guy, by the way ... ❜❜ One brow quirks, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he mentions the older Salvatore brother. ❛❛ He said I could find you there, "nursing your sorrows". ❜❜

[koschyei]

a boyar and his retinue would have done better to take the river route than brave the black wood. every rustle and scatter of wings warns of raiders and demons in the midst. luckily for the latter — though not for a far-off host — the doughty camp had ridden to the wrong feast. by the end of it, koschei was keen to the gurgling scent of the last straggler, struggling beneath the jaws of another. hunger still raged and gnawed at the upyr, aching in his joints and in his gums, but the road between the villages of medieval muscovy were long and lean. best to let farah have her fill. as poor company as koschei made when starved, he'd argue she was worse. it was hardly generous of him anyway, being to blame for most of the mess.

he steps through the ruin of the road, reeking of death and covered in such gore that he could have laid on the ground and passed as any other ravaged corpse strewn about. a wagon catches his notice, half-splintered and spilling its innards over the dirt: swatches of sable and mink, blades with gilded hilts, sealed barrels and round loaves of salted bread meant for the lord's table. it did nothing for an upyr's appetite. but perhaps still drunk on the kill, half-mad on the echo of their lives flooding his veins, koschei found himself desiring mortal comforts. more fervently than ever, the creature wanted the sight of firelight joined only with laughter and music; to be seen as a man again, instead of skulking the margins of the world like vermin.

❛❛ piyavochka, ❜❜ he calls, ❛❛ come see what suits you — and mind the relics. ❜❜ the warning was tangled with a hiss, as just then a painted cross had scorned his scavenging fingers, charged by the final prayers of farah's supper. the burn is hardly potent enough to stop him from gathering a fine fur coat. koschei drapes it over his shoulders, finds it fits well enough to cover him from the worst of his sin. ❛❛ what do you think ? ❜❜ he raises his bloodied palms and asks as if color blind: ❛❛ are the sleeves too short ? ❜❜

𓆩 ♔ 𓆪 @yharnum ( 𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒉 ) . . . starter call 

[mattmarblo]

even more bloodbuddies

[rococospade]

"Where were you keeping all of this?!"

"In my... hat...?"

"That just raises more questions!"

--

(One version with effects, the other without)

Art for Choral Composition. I really cannot tell you how many times this dumb joke got written into or out of a chapter. Ascelin has Rapunzel hair, but 90% of the time it’s braided and tucked up into a bun so no one knows but Drogomir and Vasilissa. (It’s probably not actually thigh length... but wouldn’t it be funny if it was?)

Anastas is actually rather offended about it, for the same reasons he was offended that Ascelin isn’t ugly. He doesn’t think a jerk should have pretty hair.

This was in the works for several months. I learned a lot, so hopefully the next artwork with a background + painted characters will be quicker, and so on.