there-there, dead man;

this world takes more strength than it gave me,

[vannaspar-a]

so i thought about it and the best thing i could think of doing to try and jumpstart things again is to archive and remake, so that's what's happened. new url, new space, new start. i'm taking it slow so i'll be refollowing y'all over the next week or so, and will be carrying some threads over.

[vannaspar-a]

so i thought about it and the best thing i could think of doing to try and jumpstart things again is to archive and remake, so that's what's happened. new url, new space, new start. i'm taking it slow so i'll be refollowing y'all over the next week or so, and will be carrying some threads over.

[vannaspar-a]

so i thought about it and the best thing i could think of doing to try and jumpstart things again is to archive and remake, so that's what's happened. new url, new space, new start. i'm taking it slow so i'll be refollowing y'all over the next week or so, and will be carrying some threads over.

[vannaspar-a]

so i thought about it and the best thing i could think of doing to try and jumpstart things again is to archive and remake, so that's what's happened. new url, new space, new start. i'm taking it slow so i'll be refollowing y'all over the next week or so, and will be carrying some threads over.

[vannaspar-a]

ok i've stewed on it more: vann's officially on hiatus until i feel a bit better and work on getting my drive for him back.

[heartinhands]

"Kyaaa, using my first name?!" Satoru grins then sticks out his tongue, pointedly ignoring the rest of Vann's statement for now, even though he knows as well as Vann does that it's true. Finally he asks the question he's really wanting to. "You gonna eat-- oh!" it also doesn't matter, because Vann pushes the little paper boat over to him, having caught that little flick of his eyes down to the last piece.

Delighted, he takes the boat, and sticks the whole remaining piece in his mouth. Who needs to debate when you've got yummy food? "I can do that. No promises that it's not something sweet though." Most people don't have a sweet tooth like Gojo does, but it's not his fault he ends up with an excessive amount of little treats to bring back to his friend and students. When he's buying something to satisfy a craving, he often takes advantage of a buy 2 get 2 deal, and, well--.

"You never met Suguru," Satoru says suddenly, toothpick sticking out between his lips, "but I think you would'a liked him. He said a lot of the same things you do. But he was waaaay more annoying about it than you are. Which, to be fair, is probly cuz we were teens. Maybe he'd be more normal now. I, however, have always been 100% correct." His cadence isn't exactly reflective or wistful, such mannerisms don't suit someone like him, but it is nostalgic. Satoru grins, that nostalgia fully permeating his expression in the look he tosses at Vann over top his shades. "...Let's just say he also had a tendency to stew on things too much." Which is probably why he is dead. Gojo can only hope the same doesn't happen to Vann (never mind the things he doesn't know about his friend).

[vannaspar-a]

getō suguru is a name that has crossed his path more than once, but it takes no cursed technique nor intricate investigation to know that the man is or was a sore subject for all those that discuss him, whether they wish to or not. gojō reminisces in that overconfident way of his ('he was annoying, i've always been one - hundred percent correct' never mind that the nostalgic grin that splits his face is one of the most honest confessions vann has borne witness to in the time he's spent with gojō today) and vann simply listens, fashioning pieces of the puzzle named getō suguru and trying to put them together. gojō has to say very little for the pain that afflicts everyone else to become apparent; perhaps not in its usual form, it's there regardless.

of course, vann doesn't push the issue. the great gojō, after all, is untouchable. " we all need a flaw, " he says with a shrug, " and mine is overthinking, among others. and so was his, apparently. " there are two reasons that come to mind as to why gojō would talk about getō in the past tense: divergent paths or, as it's all too common in the jujutsu world, death. maybe both. he stops entertaining that thought immediately.

" by the way, mister, we're all annoying as teenagers and we always think we're hot stuff. " a chuckle leaves him. " i would've been such an easy target for you, because this? " he gestures at his expression, the calm in his demeanor. " practice. so much practice. "

[bladewarde]

Vann and his anger are seldom seen together. As long as she's known him, traveled with him, it's company he doesn't keep often. But it's there. 'Of course I was angry.' His words settle on her, having known the feeling of retributive rage ( she still does ) and how potent of a feeling it can be. It has led her to dark places, kept her in pits so deep the thought of emerging from it seemed pointless. The crawl back out, though, is slow. Moving beyond the complicated thing that keeps her certain of herself… is worse. Without it, what is she?

The mug she holds touches her lips, delayed in drinking its contents while she thinks. She believes Vann should have punished the kid; damn what him and his parents suffered. She doesn't know, but she imagines the people in Vann's life back then were just as broken, just as shattered, that someone such as he was taken from them. Now, here he is. Believing the scales perfectly weighted: His failure of the brother in exchange for his death, and what comes after will come. Laera doesn't like that; can't accept that that's the end of it…

For a moment, she feels his eyes on her again, and he's smiling. She's isn't. The wine she's just taken into her mouth is drying, her tongue stripped of feeling, her throat burning. What the fuck was that…?

The High Abbot would condemn Vann for failing Tyr, yet he seems to accept that in his failure, he will be punished. Not now, not tomorrow, but a time when justice demands it. There's more to it, though; more to his thoughts spoken aloud, another layer deeper still. He's hiding from her.

❝ I want to 'old on to my anger. It makes me feel… me. ❞ Laera is slow, thoughtful about her words. ❝ I don't know if I can forgive them for what they did to me. That's my choice, but during those twenty years I always knew one thing: Their actions against me wasn't my fault. ❞ She sets her mug down now on the railing, almost empty now. Laera wonders if he's listening. ❝ Vann, that kid dying wasn't your fault. His brother killing you wasn't your fault. You were given a second life but…You're expediting your punishiment by punishing yourself. Do you see that…? ❞

A small step forward, in spite of her hesitance to do so. The unease grips her, fearful of the takeover of his space. Her voice is low, and only loud enough for him to hear: ❝ You didn't deserve any of that, Vann. ❞

[vannaspar-a]

his smile falters and imperceptibly turns into an uncomfortable rictus, a mockery of relief, as though the corners of his mouth are caught in and stretched by fishhook. it vanishes from his eyes, too, crow's feet now smoothed under the weight of dread. it's not the first time he's heard that. it's not the first time someone has tried to exonerate him, lessen the burden of his abject failure, and it's not the first time he turned away from it. there are some bodies one simply can't put down. vann averts his eyes from laera's, sharply and in deep shame. he says nothing for a time, far too concerned with the rush of blood in his ears and the mounting distress.

there is nothing angelic, divine or righteous about the frustration that grips his chest and constricts it. this swell of emotion is his and his alone. " i was with him for four nights, " he starts slowly, carefully, like he's speaking around shards of glass. his eyes are fixed somewhere on the horizon. " i was with callisto for four nights. every one of them, i watched him writhe in his sleep and every one of them, i tried so hard to calm him, to rid him of i should have been enough. and "

vann catches himself faster than he can process the blurriness of his vision: he blinks back tears at frightening speed, but the tremble in his voice isn't so easy to manage. " and then the fifth, he was gone. i tried, and and yes, his brother ... castor killed me. and the worst thing about it is that i the last thing i saw was ... was castor trying to stem the flow of blood and buy me time. " flagon of drink all but forgotten, vann braces his hands against the railing and bends down, forehead pressed against the cold stone, features out of sight. " i didn't have to die. "

the confession is salt in a reopened wound; for a moment, vann resents how easy laera's sentiment has undone him so utterly. it doesn't last, because he's suddenly too tired to. " i was back by sunrise. by sunrise. it makes no sense. " like water snap - freezing, the tremble in vann's voice solidifies into a hard edge: anger, the kind that laera has never seen trail after him. " i make no sense. why am i ? "

pain in his hands cuts through the haze of his thoughts, bringing him back to the present moment. when he looks up, vann realizes he's been gripping the railing hard enough for his knuckles to whiten. he remembers laera, remembers himself. this is no place for such penitence. vann draws himself back up to full height, the knot of tension that had tightened his shoulders now dissolving in the wake of a heavy sigh. " you have your anger ... and i have mine. i thank you. "

[lerecueil]

THE HUMAN NATURE OF HIS OWN DESIRES HAS DISGUSTED TRISTAN FROM CHILDHOOD. harsh as they were, his first lessons on taught him what he already seemed instinctively to know. " flights of fancy can kill you, boy, remember that well, " his mentor scolded him as tris trotted on little legs to keep up in a lower coruscanti market. " the promise of love's a parlor trick. and even if it weren't, it'd be for the rich and beautiful, not a scrawny little gutter rat like you. no such thing as a free lunch, little hatchling. "

for his part, tristan took those words to heart. all his life, he allowed himself to want nothing but what happened to cross his threshold, what was easy to snatch – be that food and drink, money, conversation, touch – until caution and suspicion overrode that desire and he fled without warning, teeth snapping all the way. historically, it's enough to deter most into keeping their distance. vann has yet to join their ranks. instead, he remains, with seemingly endless patience, and reels tristan back to him in ways the snake cannot fully explain.

it's becoming a problem.

that hand still grips vann's shirt, even as he maintains a firm pressure against the other man's hip, pushing away and pulling close, part of the seesaw that defines him. his chin props absently just where his teeth nearly made a mark, casual as anything, as if he isn't savoring the rare warmth of touch. ( rare because he makes it that way, not because vann withholds, although tristan sometimes thinks that would be easier. ) if he thinks too much about that warmth, he'll spook, so he allows instinct to guide him, instead focusing all thoughts on logistics, travel, transportation, the conversations he's had with gorak on the subject.

he grunts his weak protest when vann loops an arm around him and pulls him nearer, but that same instinct betrays him, melting his muscles into his companion's side, even as he tilts his head to bite again, as if channelling what he cannot quite put into words. his resistance, as always, is part of it all. tristan never learned the skill of easy acceptance – of the good significantly more than the bad. instinct strains against any tacit desire to trust, but still he clings on, allowing his forehead to settle on vann's arm, precisely where his teeth just grazed.

he cannot help that his mind is torn asunder. his companion means what he says, he can tell – but broken promises often arise from the best intentions.

" surprised you're still on toshara at all, in that case, " he mumbles haughtily against vann's sleeve. despite his bitterness, his legs coil up beside him as his weight shifts to lean more heavily against the other man. not for the first time, he resembles a resigned lothcat – which isn't made better as he pulls his head away only to roughly press the crown of it against vann's bulky chest with what sounds like half a growl. " but maybe. pay won't be good at first, you know. pykes won't pour too much into it until I prove I can operate on a return. you'd make better money here than with me. "

yet his apparent attempts to deter don't stop him lifting his head again and bracing a knee against vann's thigh to surge upward into another starving kiss.

[vannaspar-a]

some days are often spent like this: swallowed up in a haze of contradiction, weathering the stormy winds of tristan's mood while remaining indestructible sanctuary for them both to return to when the tosharan sun sets. vann has known this from the start and has grown used to such push - and - pull, and as such gotten to see sides of tristan that otherwise would have remained forever hidden to him. he has no doubt that this the hand closed around his chest, the body greedily half - pressed to his for warmth, the lips that kiss him like a man starved is all real, genuine in an unfathomable way, but so many years of survival have made tristan's hands into claws and nothing, not even what he allows himself to hold close, ever escapes bloodlessly. there are marks on everything tristan patel touches and pushes away.

indestructible doesn't mean invulnerable. even as tristan kisses him with dizzying force, vann can't help but think about the ease with which he's been repeatedly dismissed and with rather feeble attempts at it, too. is this one last gamble? is tristan savouring one last moment of enjoyment before facing the inevitable? vann hardly appreciates it if so.

and considering where they're going next and how, it might just be worth making it known.

nearly breathless, cheeks almost as warm as tristan's, vann draws back just enough to break the kiss. " tristan, " he whispers, placing a hand against the man's chest, " stop it. " two of his fingertips rest just shy of the hollow of tristan's throat; at any other time, such contact would have felt tempting. " you trying to talk me into staying behind but what you're doing says something else entirely. i'm not going to akiva for the credits; and yeah, 'what an idiot'. i'm going with you ... and i want to hear you tell me you want me to go. tell me that i'm coming with you. "

[lerecueil]

AN ABSENT HUM RESONATES IN THE DEPTHS OF TRISTAN'S CHEST IN RESPONSE, BUT INITIALLY, HE SAYS NOTHING. for some reason, he likes that explanation less than the previous. he and vann operate vastly differently, of which this is just another example. unlike tristan, vann provides others the benefit of the doubt somewhat frequently. while he doesn't think his companion a fool, exactly, tris certainly questions the wisdom of offering that sort of confidence so easily – at least, insofar as he view easy. on the other side of things, tristan feels far safer assuming that everyone else conceals their motives. it keeps him alive, or so he insists, to second guess everything, to withhold even the thought of best intentions.

it's more complicated than that, he knows, and vann certain doesn't trust everyone he meets by a long shot – but in any case, his outlook on sentient beings is more favorable, and as far as tristan is concerned, it brings the same result. whether it's trust or simply the option of faith, you still end up with the same knife in your back.

" I might still, " he growls half under his breath, that same sharp look fixed on the pair, brow lifted and gaze hard as flint. his eyes narrow, and suddenly, he peels his lip back to bare his teeth. the pandoran flinches, and tristan leans back in his seat, his expression now tinged with a subtle smugness that likely would have gone missed by anyone but the man before him. " but speaking of lunches, haven't you heard that there's no such thing as a free one? "

tris's attention turns back to his companion then, tilting his head like a curious cat – albeit one with entirely too devious. his gaze doesn't move as he sips thoughtfully at his beverage again, by now practically slumped back against the booth, one leg now laying along the length of the seat beside him, making as must use of the space as he can manage. he has never been uncomfortable taking up space, for as much as he shies from other normal things. if anything, in general terms, it serves as a show of dominance – not against vann but rather anyone, at any time. it gives him the illusion of comfort in his own skin, of a confidence that's mostly for show.

" we all pay for some kind of security, and around here, that's the pykes. for them, for me, even for you. and there's a hell of a premium on security these days. " he lifts a hand, gesturing to the bartender for another ale, simultaneously shooting a final icy glare at vann's admirers as if clearly chiding them for not sending over a drink for him, too. " maybe they paid more in credits. but it's better than paying gorak tribute later with blood for encroaching on his turf. I'm sure they don't mind the up-charge. "

[vannaspar-a]

tristan has the right of it: they did pay more in credits, and only because vann had seen himself forced to negotiate more aggressively than usual. it isn't like him to suspect duplicity right off the bat, not when he so insists on behaving opposite to the vast majority of the galaxy these days, but sometimes his trained senses have the right of it. they would have pinched credits and that would have ended badly for all of them. money will suffice this time. gorak could and will get his pound of flesh later down the line.

[ you're one man, vann. he's in no position to do anything, not here in toshara and not when interfering with one cog in the machine would bring the second, larger machine bearing down on him. it's a harsh reality ... but no system is perfect. no fortress is impregnable. perfection doesn't exist. ]

vann finishes the rest of his drink in one final gulp, dabs at the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. " they didn't, " he confirms in the wake of long sigh, " because they were looking me in the eye when i told them about said up - charge. " there's a moment of grim finality in vann's words, maybe even warning if tristan cares to read further into it. " at least they appreciated the honesty. funny how some people are more at ease with a knife in the back when they know about it and can see where it's going to end metaphorically speaking.

" and don't mind them, " he chides gently after a pause, certainly not having forgotten the near - predatory show from mere minutes ago. " they'll leave soon enough. you can leave ... all of that for someone who actually deserves it. "

[lyonelb-a]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀as a nobleman at last conceding his daughter of renown to a lowly suitor, or like a marketman of roots and greens coaxed into easing the toll upon his goods, thus turn the knight's thoughts, and most agreeably so. fury finds fertile soil within men of lyonel's breed (wherefore, the words of the house speak with fidelity) and aware thereof must be the knight, broad as a bear yet temperate of spirit, stood afore lord lyonel, vexingly tall and vexingly composed ⸻ a man most meetly suited for service on one's host. tempestuous and eager to rage are the gusts that reign storm's end, tearing forth trees by root, battering houses and affrighting animals, and anon these winds subside, bated to but a mere zephyr that scarcely ruffles leaf or bough; and akin in mettle and bearing are the men that govern said keep.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the echoing clack of heel on flagstone is stilled, and lyonel swings 'round, gaze pursuing the man that dogs him as a hound tracking blood. the corridor is a darksome one, relieved here and there by the fitful glow of torches clinging to gray walls; far gloomier, this, than the throne room. and through the scant light lyonel observes the great hulking figure of a man, for at length has he torn forth the prize he has hunted thus far. thunder bids all men to their knees in time, lyonel reckons. but the thunder has abated now, and the heaven has unburned itself of tempest, and the gusts have softened to a caress. a simper hovers at the corners of lyonel's mouth and he dampens his lips, edges nearer to the men with an idle tread.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀" you're wiser than you look. " he muses, gaze descending anew unto the crimson fabric wound about the knight's neck. his man, now. his to keep, as a frost-born hound from the woods, bound with a rope to his doorstep. eyes of bronze dart upwards, and lyonel cocks his head. " stubborn as a fucking mule, though. " ere a grimace twists his features and he gestures a hand. " suppose that's useful, eh? should some cunt try to buy you from me, they'll go mad haggling for you. " he pats the man's chest, rests his palm on the steel a little longer than needful. a gem-studded finger traces the hem of the blood-red fabric, a vulpine smile edging his lips. " awful secretive, too, aren't you? " and he nods toward the guarded throat. " have i earned my look at it, now? "

[vannaspar-a]

and to think that come the morrow, vann will have pledged himself to the lord of the stormlands, and that he will abandon his neutral greys for the stag's trademark black and gold. perhaps it will be allowed to be discreet, for vann of skagos is a man of many worlds and lives that he forbids himself to forget about. he will trade the snow and ice of the north for the salt and rain of storm's end, but winter makes a forever home within the people birthed in its embrace. lyonel inches closer to vann as he himself approaches, the simper upon the lord's lips betraying his satisfaction (or is it a bold showcase of victory?). that humour returns, crass and yet filled with undeniable truths, and in a company that has all but invited him to be bold, the knight matches the baratheon's smile.

it's a longer lived gesture than he would have expected it, even as the stag's ringed hand bridges the distance between them, lingering upon his breastplate as though it had at last found its destined place to rest. [ many men, men like the laughing storm, see scars as proof of survival against the grasp of death. a mark of pride. vann wonders if he'll ever be able to think about that way. for now, however, lyonel eagerly waits for the tree he has so restlessly gored to bleed at last. crimson mixes with velvet carmine. ]

you will have no secrets from a lord. they are rarely so reciprocal or generous with privacy. gael told him that so long ago, it's almost surprising he remembers. there is no backing out now.

vann releases a slow breath. his eyes have not left lyonel's, and as such they remain when he finally reaches up to move away the fabric. scars bisect his neck horizontally, some from older injuries, but there, just beside the column of his throat the reason for such secrecy. a stab wound just over an inch wide, one of its ends stretching out like a thin length of rope. the chill of storm's end burrows under his armour, the salt in it arousing a sting as though the wound were reopened. it isn't. " does that satisfy, my lord? "

[windsshowling]

endless Witcher 3 scenery » 196/∞

[vannaspar-a]

hey have i ever mentioned the fact vann almost had a bad ending in his og campaign and that i may still entertain it as a general verse. it's gonna be fun (read: agonizing) to think about because a man like him having an actual 'fallen angel' moment would go so hard and yet be kinda terrifying. don't forget, vann reads people for filth. i joke about him being the group therapist but that immediately loses its good intent and becomes a weapon. having such an understanding of the human psyche when, in most iterations, he is human - adjacent would be so dangerous and so harmful; he'd quite literally be the type of antagonist that dismantles people with words alone, and then on top of that his innate divinity / goodness is a mockery of what it originally was. and he's powerful. one of my favorite things to thing about is the difference between protector vs. fallen aasimar, especially as illustrated back in volo's guide to monsters:

Evil aasimar make deadly foes. The radiant power they once commanded becomes corrupted into a horrid, draining magic. And their angelic guides abandon them.

imagine falling to such intense and all - consuming darkness your angelic guide abandons you. that one figure of varying degrees of presence but of radical and unbending good severing the connection you've had since youth. vann almost had that happen and frankly in his case, it would have fundamentally altered him. even still, fantasy and divinity aside and though it's extremely hard to get vann to 'fall', if he ever did ... boy howdy. he wouldn't be someone that destroys and harms intentionally, but he still does and is highly capable of doing it. in astronomical terms, he goes from star to black hole, and that really is a point of no return.

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ THE 𝐒TAGES OF 𝐈NTIMACY.   a collection of various action prompts centered around the varying stages of intimacy.  feel free to adjust as desired. heavily mature content, dni with this post if you are under 18, & DO NOT use these prompts for non-con scenarios.  )

SETTINGS.

[01.] finding privacy in a cramped dressing room.

[02.] cramming into the backseat of a car together.

[03.] slipping into the lonesome alleyway behind the bar for "time alone".

[04.] pulling them away from a party after hours of relentless teasing.

[05.] getting handsy under the table at a fancy dining establishment.

[06.] taking the long way home and pulling over on a dark stretch of road.

[07.] staying behind at the venue after everyone else has left.

[08.] the hotel room door barely clicks shut before hands are on them.

[09.] a tent in the middle of nowhere where no one can hear anything.

NEW TERRITORY.

[10.] finding yourself staring at their mouth and getting caught.

[11.] pulling back from a kiss to look at them, then immediately going back in.

[12.] memorizing the shape of them for the first time with your palms.

[13.] that exploratory first kiss, reserved and shy.

[14.] a gentle first kiss that morphs into intense want.

[15.] feeling the shape of their body through their clothes.

[16.] asking for permission to remove one of their garments.

[17.] finally succumbing to the thick tension & colliding feverishly.

[18.] fumbling with buttons or zippers because your hands won't stop shaking.

[19.] admitting out loud that you've been thinking about this for a while.

HEATING UP.

[20.] pulling them into your lap in the midst of a heated kiss.

[21.] discovering that they're wearing [ GEAR / LINGERIE ] under their clothes.

[22.] kissing away from their lips, down the length of their neck.

[23.] desperately grinding on them through layers of clothing.

[24.] dirty talking directly into their ear to turn them on even further.

[25.] pushing them onto a piece of furniture before straddling them.

[26.] lifting them onto the countertop while making out.

[27.] tugging their hair to expose more of their throat to your mouth.

[28.] the wrecked way they say your name for the first time.

[29.] fabric tearing because neither of you has the patience for buttons.

[30.] removing an obstacle of clothing with your teeth.

UNRAVELING.

[31.] biting down on their shoulder to muffle how good it feels.

[32.] the sound they make when you find the spot that undoes them.

[33.] begging without any trace of pride left and meaning every word.

[34.] their composure cracking for the first time, they finally stop holding back.

[35.] repeating "don't stop" like it's the only language left in their mouth.

[36.] leaving possessive marks in places only they'll see.

[37.] whispering "look at me" right before you take them apart.

[38.] trying to be quiet and failing, so they clamp a hand over your mouth.

[39.] flipping positions so fast neither of you remembers who initiated it.

[40.] their nails dragging down your back hard enough to sting later.

[41.] being told to open your mouth and doing it before the sentence is finished.

[42.] having your hands pinned above your head.

[43.] the desperate scramble to get closer when there is no closer to get.

COMING DOWN.

[44.] fingers lazily tracing the marks they just left on your skin.

[45.] pulling the blanket over both of you without being asked.

[46.] that silent, dazed smile when they catch your eye across the pillow.

[47.] the shaky laugh when neither of you can remember where your shirt is.

[48.] going to get water and bringing a glass back for them without asking.

[49.] lying chest to chest, feeling their heartbeat slow back down against yours.

[50.] the quiet "hey" that means something completely different now.

[51.] "come here" said softly — not urgently. just wanting them close again.

[52.] the reluctant moment of untangling.

[laesarus]

despite the composure li - shepard scrapes together,   seemingly by sheer force of will,   saren can't help feeling like his mentioned bomb has gone off.   fragments of his spirit litter the alley like shrapnel scattered across a battlefield.   saren’s gaze flicks towards the alley’s entrance while the human collects those pieces.   the rapid switch between panic and calm would be dizzying,  were it not so impressive.   self - control to rival saren's own.    

he's uncertain what to make of the sudden spike of fear  —  the same stricken wide - eyed horror in that breath before the bullet.   perhaps it's pity.   the human has a way of seeing the world  (and seeing him)  that saren once beloathed as naive.   a perspective that's no longer assured.   not after this.   vann breathes compassion like oxygen and saren wonders what leap of logic has earned him that outpour this time in spite of the trauma response he provoked.   distance maintained between them is noted in muted acceptance.

mandibles flex slow and controlled as saren steps away from his post,  humour sparked by the other's words expelled from his body in a deep,  long exhale.   (of course he wants to talk.   it's all li - shepard ever seems to want to do.)   saren doesn't roll his eyes,  too disciplined for such a trifling display,  but it's a near thing.     " must we? "   words drenched in thinly veiled derision,  saren turns,  making for the street without waiting for li - shepard to catch up.  

given the circumstances of their last encounter,  the demand is not unreasonable.   (but what does he expect to gain from such conversation besides closure saren can't provide?)   at the very least,  it will provide further opportunities to analyse the commander's behaviour for…  anomalies.  of the cerberus kind,  and otherwise.     " ping this frequency when you're done, "   he says,  activating his omnitool and unceremoniously flinging the public address for revan's office at li - shepard.   saren doesn't care to know whether li - shepard still possesses his comm frequency and frankly,  he sees little point in raising the matter when their paths will soon diverge.

disquiet settles in his chest like the hint of faintness when biotic manoeuvres burn through caloric reserves.   trouble brews in the alliance between revan and their superiors.   saren doesn't need confirmation  —  sees it in the tense line of their shoulders and hard set of their lips after each call with alliance command.   the council too stirs ill at ease.   something unsettles them,  and though saren hasn't yet discerned whether these are related, instinct tells him li - shepard's presence in his life may soon become a staple.

the thought is so jarring that saren halts midstride.   humiliating slip turns into an intentional pause;  saren activates his scrambling  program before resuming his pace.     " i have better things to do than wait,  forlorn,  while you wrestle with the council. "  

[vannaspar-a]

vann finds that he doesn't have the heart to snap back, at least not in a way that would be either productive or conducive to further conversation later, so he simply says nothing. he won't even assume that saren will humour his request to talk, so opposed to it as the turian seems to be because all humans do is talk. [ sometimes they talk too much, and sometimes they don't talk enough. there will always be something for saren arterius to hate because he will always find it. ] he waits, following the retreating saren with his gaze until the alley shelters only one and it's only then that vann allows himself to rake his fingers through his scalp, sighing.

he lets his hair come loose only to gather it back up into a ponytail, and all the while he marvels at the sheer emptiness that's settled inside him. ten minutes ago, everything was too much; now, somehow it's not enough. he needs to see the council immediately; the sooner that's done, the sooner he and the normandy can leave the citadel. walk. walk. you have to move

vann takes a step, miraculously enough, and then the rest come easy. the climb back up the stairs and into the embassy offices is a slow but determined one, and with each landing he reaches and minute spent out in the open his armor mends itself. it doesn't matter that there's a camera still hovering above his head, unaccompanied by its reporter - in - charge, or that there are dozens of gazes trying to look at him with varying degrees of discretion. what matters to him is his reunion with the now - councilor anderson (short, but no less sincere), as well as his meeting with the rest of the council which brings to his table yet another life - altering event.

it's not just the reinstatement as spectre, which he agrees to based on practicality, nor is it simply the invalidation of several months of work and a wild chase through the galaxy. of course there are no reapers. of course the citadel didn't nearly cease to exist. anderson's office begins to feel claustrophobic, and it gets worse when they tell him saren is to be part of the normandy's crew.

" nothing to say, commander? " anderson's question is professional, but there is no denying he's waiting for the repercussions of such a decision to make themselves known, because vann's been far too quiet for his own good.

vann looks once between his omni - tool and the council holograms. " no, councilor. saren's coming with me. "

[zaratustran]

she gives him time to process while studying his features with characteristic intensity, looking intently for any signs of shock or recognition. worse still ?? deceit. that is an ugly thought, especially when levied against him. vann — commissar niorun — could count himself among the blessed few dukane actually trusted with absolute certainty. furthermore ( crass as it was ) she'd never stepped in bed with dragor or barrowvitch. she knew that he knew that insofar as duty was concerned it could not become personal — that whatever dynamic existed between them behind closed doors evaporated as soon as they met their stations. but this still feels . . . off. wrong, almost like betrayal, to pull him of all people into this future atrocity ( and whose hang up is that ?? ) .

he'd forgive her of course. he'd say there would be nothing to forgive, and in a way that makes it worse, but she strangles down the dull buzz in her chest with a tyrants practiced grip, and continues onward without reluctance or delay.

" until recently i had assumed the same, " she stood then, stretching her arms briefly before making her way to the thick wall of steel paneling that separated them from the driver and front gunner. at one point they power over one of the many piles of ruined infrastructure dotting the old road; dukane braces her hand on the railing above, unhurried. "the words are not important — look at the image second from bottom right — again top left. no i said left — yes, that. " a trio of circles centered on a triangle of spikes; not close to uncommon iconography, his was an easy mistake to make. dukane isn't looking at him, instead she's ensuring the vox transmitter that allowed them to speak with the rest of the taurox's crew was firmly switched off. " that heraldry belongs to heretic astartes. "

@vannaspar

[vannaspar-a]

circles on spikes. he spots the subject of dukane's interest after some vacillation, and only then does the difference become clear: the circles are the upright triangle, the spikes the inverted one. it's indeed an easy change to miss, and even still it's something he should have missed for this time, a keen eye could have easily betrayed him. whatever he'd been about to say, however, swiftly dies in his throat; vann times his surprise badly, looking up as the taurox jostles its passengers like fish in a tin, and as such inevitably hits the back of his head against the panelling. the flash of pain is a momentary distraction, one that nearly brings a mild swear out of him.

the metallic grinding of the taurox as it trudges over the terrain makes for horrendous acoustics, oddly fitting the revelation that's left dukane with the subtlety of an orbital bombardment. vann stares, momentarily bereft of the decorum befitting a man of his rank. his instinctive response is skepticism, if for no other reason than the presence of traitor astartes would have been cause for immediate alarm ... but then again, this is an inquisitorial effort. no, they wouldn't

wouldn't they? it's the inquisition. their chief concern is to maintain the sanctity of the imperium, binding sane survivors under an oath of silence and executing the rest. demons, cults, heretic astartes: the truth is a threat. ignorance is thy best defence. what a bunch of

vann shifts in his seat, suddenly feeling as though a noose had fallen around his neck. [ sometimes, it likely would have been better to have died aboard the indefatigable than have an interrogator weaponize his survival and twist it into blackmail. ] what follows after skepticism is grim and heavy acceptance. dukane likes testing those under her command, but not like this. " and it means either one of two things: they're either likely to come or throne forbid ... " they would have known: if not through reports, then through the ensuing unmitigated slaughter. " that's a serious thing to say, ma'am. "

[deepdwellingsteamboat]

Harviken, Faroe, Skellige THE WITCHER 3: WILD HUNT 2015・dev. CD Projekt Red

[windsshowling]

endless Witcher 3 scenery » 152/∞